


nor need we power or splendor

by shellybelle



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, F/F, F/M, Multi, the best solution to a love triangle is an ot3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-04-02 08:29:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 242,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4053391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellybelle/pseuds/shellybelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She hadn’t been sure, at the time, what had finally driven her away from the training center, brought her to book a flight to Waterloo and rent a car for the drive out out to the farm. But when she had packed a bag and headed to the nearest airport, it hadn’t been her apartment in New York or her condo in DC or her London townhouse or any number of hidden bolt-holes she kept around the world that she’d flown to, but a creaking, busy farmhouse in Iowa. (Or: It's been a long journey to get to where they are, and it'll be an even longer journey home.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end of chapter for notes and warnings.

_"Nor need we power or splendor, wide hall or lordly dome. The good, the true, the tender--_  
_These form the wealth of home."_  
\- Sarah J. Hale

 

**2015**

Clint woke in the small hours of the night to soft infant whimpering.

For a moment, he let himself lie perfectly, hopefully still. Maybe this was it. The night of every parent’s dreams. The first self-soothe, sleep-through-the-night night.

In the crib in the corner of the room, Nate sniffled, quieted--Clint held his breath--and then settled into a long, enthusiastic wail.

Next to him, Laura groaned. “Clint.”

“I know, I know.” Wincing as old wounds creaked and stretched, Clint rolled out of bed and shuffled across the room. “Alright, buddy, it’s okay. I got you.” He reached into the crib and lifted Nate out. As if on cue, Nate’s cries stopped at the touch. “There you go, man. Dad’s got you.”

Nate turned his head and nuzzled at Clint’s belly, one tiny hand patting against Clint’s skin. Clint made a valiant effort not to melt inside, failed miserably, and changed Nate’s diaper, because he and Laura had their routine down to a science at this point and he wasn’t about to mess with it.

By the time Nate was changed--on the dresser, because by kid number three they were done pretending that a changing table was a necessity--Laura was sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes. “Special delivery,” Clint said, passing the baby over.

Laura’s eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled, reaching for Nate. He pawed at her until she set him against her breast, and then immediately relaxed, suckling contentedly. Laura leaned back against her pillows with a sigh, one arm wrapped securely around Nate. She reached up with the other to brush Clint’s hair back. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Clint turned his head to kiss her palm. “You okay? Need anything?”

“No, I’m okay. I have some water here.” She smiled at him. “Do you want to catch some sleep while he eats?”

He shook his head. “I’ll stay up with you. It’s only fair--” He cut himself off, ears perking. The downside of wearing his aids to sleep in order to hear the baby was that the slightest sound woke him, but the upside was that his sniper-trained sense system was always turned up to eleven. The noise in the house had been soft and muffled, but still out of place.

“Clint? What is it?”

“Someone’s in the house,” he said, careful to keep his voice low and level.

Laura tensed, her smile vanishing. “Do I need to get the kids?”

Clint listened for another moment. He heard a creak, some familiar footsteps, and then another creak, this one of a well-loved sofa settling under someone’s weight. He relaxed. “No. It’s Nat.”

Relief flooded Laura’s features. “She could have called.”

“She never calls.” Clint leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “I’ll check on her.”

“Tell her to come up to bed,” Laura said, shifting Nate slightly as she leaned back again. “That couch will kill her back.”

Clint snorted. “She’ll say no.”

“Then tell her she’s in charge of Cooper and Lila when they come down in the morning.”

He chuckled. “I’ll let her know.” Straightening, he grabbed a flannel off the end of the bed, shrugging into it and buttoning it one-handed as he headed down the hall. Out of habit, he paused briefly by Cooper and Lila’s doors to listen for any sounds beyond soft, even breathing, and then, satisfied that all was well, padded down the stairs

As expected, there was a blanket-covered lump curled on the living room couch. A few red curls were visible at the edges of the afghan. Clint smiled, crouching down next to the sofa and tugging gently on one of the rogue curls. “Tasha.”

Natasha’s head emerged from the pile of blankets, frowning at him. “Hair-pulling, Clint? Really?”

“Who broke into whose house again?”

“I didn’t break in. I have a key.” Natasha sat up, pushing her hair back. The only light in the room was the moonlight through the window, but Clint could see she looked exhausted. Still, she smiled faintly at him. “Hi.”

“Hey.” He held out his arms and she leaned into them with a sigh, resting her head on his shoulder. He kissed her hair. “Bad day?”

“Many.” She leaned back, moving over on the couch to make room for him. “I needed a break.”

“You’re always welcome here.” He took the spot next to her, wincing as his joints settled. “You could’ve come up.”

Natasha shrugged. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

Clint raised his eyebrows at her. “I’ve got a five-week-old baby up there. You think I was planning on sleeping through the night?” Natasha shrugged again, looking down. Clint frowned and nudged her gently. “Hey,” he said. “Still nothing from the big guy?”

She shook her head. “I keep looking,” she said quietly. “Don’t get anything back.”

He ran a hand through his hair. _Damn it, Bruce,_ he thought. _You were supposed to be the good one._ “I’m sorry, Nat.”

Natasha looked at him sharply. “Are you?”

There was a challenge in her voice. Clint very carefully ignored it, holding her gaze steadily. “Yes, I am.” He spread his hands, a no-threat-here gesture. “I want you happy, Nat. Whatever else we’ve been, you’re my best friend, and I want you happy. Maybe I got my own hopes for where that could be, but what I want’s not the priority here. If Bruce makes you happy and he’s gone, you bet I’m sorry for it.”

Natasha’s expression softened, and she looked away. “I know. I know that.” She shivered slightly, and Clint pulled the blanket up and around her shoulders. She spared him a smile. “Sorry. I’m just…”

“I know. You don’t have to explain it to me.”

She nodded, fingers fiddling with a loose thread on the afghan. “Cap and the rest, they say hi.”

Clint rubbed the back of his head and let her change the subject. “I keep meaning to call.”

“You’re parenting. I think they forgive you.”

“Yeah, well, if I stay gone too long, they’ll think I’ve retired for good.” He winked and, in the dim light, saw Natasha roll her eyes. Clint grinned at her, then sobered slightly. “How’s Wanda?”

Natasha’s expression turned thoughtful. “Healing,” she said after a long moment. “I show her pictures of Nate sometimes. I think it helps.”

“That’s something, at least.” Clint rubbed his eyes. “How long’re you staying?”

Natasha hesitated. “I’m not sure.”

Clint nodded. It was about what he expected. “You know you’re welcome as long as you want.”

She smiled softly. “I know.”

“Good.” He climbed to his feet. “Come on. Laura said to tell you to come to bed.”

Natasha started to rise, and then paused. “I don’t know.”

“It’s just sleep, Nat.” He rubbed absently at an old scar, and then grinned at her. “Laura also said to tell you that if you stay down here, you’re in charge of the kids when they wake up for Saturday morning playtime.”

She winced. “Low blow,” she said, but got to her feet. “How many more times will Nate be up tonight?”

Clint groaned. “God knows. He’s almost as bad as Cooper.”

Natasha followed him towards the stairs. “Not lucky enough to get another Lila?”

“Lila was our angel child,” Clint agreed.

“Until she was mobile.”

“Yeah, all downhill from there.”

They fell silent as they reached the landing, slipping quietly past the kids’ rooms and making for the master bedroom. Clint held the door open for Natasha, then closed it carefully behind them.

“Perfect timing,” Laura said from the bed. “I think he’s about done.” She smiled at Natasha, her special Natasha smile that no one else ever received. “Hi, Nat. We missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” Natasha said, climbing into the bed. She reached out and brushed her fingertips over Nate’s head. “He’s getting so big,” she said, and Clint wouldn’t help his smile. Nat was all awe and wonder around babies, especially Clint’s, all of whom she’d seen born, in blood and tears and joy. “He’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Laura dipped her head slightly, a few strands of hair falling forward. Natasha tucked them back for her, a motion that seemed at once automatic and unexpected, and she looked at her hand as she pulled it back, as if surprised at it. “How long are you staying?”

“Don’t know,” Natasha said, and then, as Laura looked at her unwaveringly, amended, “A few days, at least.”

Clint suppressed a grin. Laura always got a better answer than he did.

“Glad to hear it,” Laura said, smiling at her. “Maybe you and Clint can do some sparring. He’s getting antsy.”

“I have not,” Clint protested. Laura shot him a skeptical look, and he deflated. “Well. Maybe a little.”

Natasha grinned at him, all teeth. “I’ll get it out of his system.”

“Evil women,” Clint muttered. “No fair ganging up on me.”

Laura chuckled. “It’s good for you, Barton.” She eased Nate away from her breast, rubbed his back until he let out a contented burp, kissed his forehead, and then passed him up to Clint. “Back to bed with him.”

Clint took him from her and cradled him carefully, letting Nate yawn sleepily against one arm as he carried him back to bed. He set him down in the crib and laid a hand on Nate’s belly, rubbing small circles and humming a nameless lullaby to him as he settled. After a few moments, Nate relaxed, his breathing turning slow and even. Clint smiled, turning away and back to the rest of the room, only to find both Laura and Nat staring at him with identical expressions, somewhere caught between affection and and wonder. Laura looked almost tearful. “What?”

Laura shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “I love you. Come to bed.”

Clint cocked an eyebrow at her, but shed his flannel, climbing into bed. “Scoot,” he told Natasha. She rolled her eyes, but moved over to make room. He dropped face-down onto the pillow, and received identical pokes in both sides until he groaned and rolled over onto his back. “Fine, fine.”

“Listen to him,” Laura said, curling into his right side. “Such hardship, being in the middle of two women who love him.”

“Some things never change,” Natasha said, and if her voice hitched just a little, Clint wasn’t going to mention it as she settled down on his left. “He’s always been a whiner.” Clint didn’t pinch her for that, but only because it would have woken the baby, and then Laura would have smothered him with a pillow. Nat didn’t say anything more, though, just laid her head on Clint’s shoulder and rested one hand on his chest.

Clint wrapped one arm around Laura’s shoulders and dropped his other hand into Natasha’s curls. “Night, girls.”

“Mmf,” Natasha said, half-muffled against him.

“Good night,” Laura said. Clint felt her hand settle on top of Natasha’s. “Welcome home, Tasha.”

There was a pause, and then Clint felt Nat turn her hand to grasp Laura’s. “Thank you.”

Clint smiled, closed his eyes, and relaxed. He flexed the fingers of his left hand slightly, feeling the weight of his wedding ring, still something to get used to each time he came back from a long time in the field. The cool metal of Laura’s ring brushed against his side. It was a comfortable, practiced touch.

(In a small velvet box in Laura’s jewelry drawer, there was another ring, a slim, simple band of rose gold. It had been more than half a decade since the ring had been on its owner’s finger, but Laura kept it clean and polished, and every now and then Clint caught her looking at it, a quiet, nostalgic gaze. Sometimes, it was Laura who caught him. Each time, they had the same conversation, hushed and hopeful. Patience. Time. Love.

Someday, she’ll come home for good.)

Clint turned his head to kiss Natasha’s forehead, and she made a contented sound, shifting closer. He sighed. Someday was a nice idea, but it always seemed damn far off.

Still, it had taken years just to get back to where they were now. Clint relaxed back into the pillows.

Patience. Time.

Love.

Surrounded and content, Clint closed his eyes and let himself sleep.

**1996**

Clint knows he looks like shit when he drags himself into the bar in Milan, but it’s been a hell of a day and he’s very ready to have a drink. It’s the sort of feeling that always makes him a little uneasy, but tonight he’s not going to push it. He’s got a knife slash hidden under his jacket and bruising blossoming into color on his face and a probable concussion, and he wants. A damn. Drink.

The bar is a total dive, the kind of place he wouldn’t have expected to find in a city like this, but they’re definitely playing Cash loud enough to be heard in the street and that’s good enough for him.

It’s a few minutes after eleven and the bar isn’t too crowded, so Clint hauls himself up to the bar. The bartender is a broad-shouldered black man who eyes him thoughtfully for a moment, as if determining whether or not Clint is likely to pass out on his floor, then comes over. “Cosa desidera??”

“Un whiskey liscio.”

The bartender nods. “Qualche preferenza?”

Clint scans the bottles behind the counter. “Jack.” He gets another nod, and a moment later the bartender sets a glass down in front of him. Clint picks it up, wincing as his shoulder twinges. “Cheers.” The bartender turns away to serve another customer. Clint sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. He hopes he got all the blood off.

The job shouldn’t have been a tricky one, and if Nat had been here it would’ve been easy. But things tend to go wrong when Clint goes solo, which was probably why the mark had had five bodyguards instead of the promised two, and had gone down fighting a lot harder than expected. Still, the mark was dead, the bodyguards were...well, incapacitated, Clint came away alive and with the files he’d gone for in the first place, and he was definitely going to get paid. He took a sip of his drink. All things considered, not a _bad_ day. Just not one of his best.

Still, he hates it when Natasha’s away. They’ve been partners for five years now, since Clint was nineteen and barely knew what he was doing. Natasha looks barely a day older than the day they met, and Clint’s still not sure exactly how old she is. After the first time he’d asked, when her eyes had gone dark and cold, he hadn’t pressed further. Still, she’s his as much as he’s hers, and doing a job without her makes him feel like he’s missing a limb. She’s off somewhere in Russia, and he’s not looking forward to an empty hotel room after a day like this.

His internal proximity alarm startles him out of his Nat-related reverie as someone slides into the stool next to him. “Un bicchiere di Chardonnay, per favore,” the woman says in smooth Italian. Her accent isn’t native, but it’s much better than Clint’s. He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, assessing for any kind of threat. She looks like she might be around his age, maybe a little younger, fairly petite, dark hair and eyes, natural smile lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth as she chats with the bartender, glasses with thick black rims. Her hands, gesturing as she talks, are smooth, no signs of gun callouses--though Clint’s used to Natasha, and knows that smooth hands aren’t necessarily an indication of safety.

As if sensing his eyes on her, the girl turns, looks at him, does a double take, and then says, “Holy shit, what happened to you?”

Not the response he was expecting. Clint blinks, trying to get his brain to turn back on. It’s running pretty slowly. Definitely a concussion.

The girl shakes her head. “Sorry, sorry,” she mutters, and then, “Stai bene?”

Clint clears his throat. “You were right the first time.”

She relaxes. “You’re American?”

He salutes her with his drink. “Ciao,” he says. He’s running out of Italian. He never bothered learning much beyond directions and drinking.

“Hi.” She smiles, wide and pleasant, and then her eyes flicker over him again. “So, um. This might be kind of a forward question, but...are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Rough day at the office.” He takes another drink and closes his eyes at the burn. When he opens his eyes, the girl’s still looking at him. “You good over there?”

“Oh. Yeah, yes. I’m fine.” She flushes a little, takes a sip of her wine. He’d heard her order--Chardonnay, simple, classy, and a little bit basic. He suspects she doesn’t drink much. “I’m Laura.”

“Hi, Laura,” Clint says, raising one eyebrow. He has a history of being a disaster with women, Natasha excluded, though he still isn’t sure how she puts up with him. Women flirting with him in bars isn’t uncommon, but it doesn’t usually end well. They’re usually trying to kill him.

Still, he gives her a little wave. “I’m Clint,” he says.

“Hi, Clint.” Laura taps her fingertips on the bar for a moment. “Sorry. I’m going to be forward again. You kind of look like you should go to a hospital.”

He snorts into his drink. “Forward is one way to put it,” he says, putting his glass down. “You a doctor or something?”

“No. But I’m an oldest sibling, so it kind of sinks in.” She peers at him through her glasses. “Is that weird?”

Clint shrugs. “No clue. I’m a youngest kid, and my older brother wasn’t the caring type.” He thinks about it. “He might’ve commented on someone’s bruises in a bar, but probably not just out of concern. It would’ve been to see what was under their clothes.”

Laura’s eyes sparkle. “Maybe I do want to see what’s under your clothes.”

Because he is a mature, experienced man, Clint does not choke on his next sip. It’s a close call. “Sorry. What?”

She goes pink and ducks her head. “That was so awkward. Sorry. I don’t really do this.”

Her expression is so mortified that Clint can’t help grinning. She’s pretty and funny and she seems to like him, and that’s a great combination, even if he hasn’t quite figured out why. “Nah, you’re good,” he says, draining his glass to clear out his throat. “But buy a dude a drink before you start undressing him in a bar, you know?”

Laura laughs, says something in rapid Italian to the bartender, and a moment later another glass of whiskey replaces Clint’s empty one. “There,” she says. “How’s that?”

Clint raises his glass to her. “Cheers,” he says. “Are you always this, ah…” He searches through his mostly-murky brain for the right word. “Extraverted?”

It’s absolutely the wrong word, but Laura laughs anyway. She seems to be the kind of person who laughs a lot. “No,” she says. “I was supposed to go on a date tonight, but the guy turned out to be…” She makes a face.

“An asshole?” Clint suggests.

“Not my type,” she says. “Anyway, I was already dolled up, so I thought, you know.”

“Why not pick up a guy in a bar?” He fills in.

“Yeah,” she says, pink-cheeked. “That.”

Clint sips his drink. “Okay,” he says. “Well, tell me about yourself. I think I deserve to know a bit about the lady who’s trying to pick me up.”

“What do you want to know?”

He shifts a little on his barstool, trying to ease the fabric of his shirt away from the knife wound on his side without drawing attention to it. “What’s a nice Chicago girl like you doing all the way in Italy?”

Laura’s smile fades, her brow furrowing slightly. “How did you know I’m from Chicago?”

Clint tries not to wince. This is usually where he blows it. Or, as Natasha puts it, _goes too far with the spy senses and turns the girl off, honestly, Barton, I can’t take you anywhere._ “Your accent,” he says.

Confusion flickers across her face, but not suspicion, and she leans back towards him a bit. “I have an accent?”

“Everyone has an accent,” he says, relaxing a fraction, knowing that she’s not totally scared off. “I’m just good at hearing them.”

“Huh.” She sips her wine, looking at him thoughtfully. “That’s pretty impressive.”

He shrugs. “Good ears,” he says. “And practice.”

“Does that have something to do with whatever line of work you’re in?”

Clint eyes her over the rim of his glass. “Something like that,” he says, intentionally vague. “What about you? What do you do?”

Laura sets her glass down, resting her chin on her palm. “I’m a student, actually.”

Clint pauses with his glass halfway back to his lips. “Graduate?” he asks, hopefully.

She shakes her head. “No, undergrad.”

Slowly, Clint puts his glass down. “How old are you, exactly?”

“Nineteen.”

Clint winces. “Well, Laura, it’s been great talking with you, but I think this is where we call it a night.”

“Wait!” She lays a hand on his arm. “Come on, Clint, I’m not that young. You’re what, twenty-two? Twenty-three?”

“Twenty-four,” he says warily, but doesn’t move his arm away, because he is a bad bad man with weak morals, and Nat is going to skin him alive if he sleeps with a teenager.

“Fine, twenty-four.” Laura reaches up with her other hand, curls her fingers over the cut on his cheek--he carefully doesn’t flinch--and then runs her fingers through his hair. “That’s not such a big age difference.”

“You’re a teenager,” Clint points out.

Laura raises her eyebrows. “I’ll be twenty in two months,” she says, leaning in a bit further.

Clint closes his eyes. He senses her ease her way into his space, and automatically settles his hands on her hips. She’s Natasha’s height, but he can feel that her proportions are different. “I’m a bad, bad man,” he says, without opening his eyes.

Laura laughs softly. “I like you anyway,” she says, and kisses him.

It’s a soft kiss, chaste and sweet. She has one hand in his hair and the other resting gently on his arm, and doesn’t press any closer than that. She kisses, Clint realized, like someone who has only ever been kissed like this, gently, sweetly, with no violence or motive. Clint, who mostly kisses people in his own line of work (and Natasha, of course, but Natasha, as always, is his exception to everything), finds himself leaning into it, relaxing against her lips. He spreads his fingers, brushing her waist, and she shivers a little, pulling back to look at him.

“Hi,” she says, a little hoarsely. She doesn’t move her hands.

“Hi,” he says back.

They regard each other without speaking, letting the music in the bar play around them. Laura’s dark eyes look a bit darker than they did before, and Clint can feel her fingers trembling. After a long moment, Laura slips her hand from his hair and lays it against his cheek. It’s a soft touch, the kind he usually hates, but he turns his face into it, makes it firmer. Laura smiles. “Clint,” she says. “Will you come home with me?”

Clint swallows. He thinks about Natasha, thousands of miles away, and wonders what she’d say here, what she’d do. Tasha, who spends so much time with her hands covered in blood that the first time Clint had touched her with tenderness, she’d hid her face in his shoulder, cheeks damp with tears. His body was aching with new injuries and old, and the idea of a gentle touch, even just for a night, was…

Well. That was what Natasha would say, wasn’t it? _Take softness where it’s offered, Clint,_ she’d told him once, as they lay in a hotel bed in Beijing, the sheets damp and tangled around them. _You never know when you’ll get it again._

Laura is still looking at him, quietly, giving him time to think. Clint swallows, takes her hand away from his cheeks, and threads his fingers through it. “Yes,” he says, and she smiles.

**2015**

In the morning--the real morning, not the various ungodly hours that Nate seemed to think were reasonable times to be awake--Laura detangled herself from the arms that had wrapped around her in the night and slipped from the bed, half-smiling at the twin grumbles that echoed her leaving. She glanced into Nate’s crib, found him sleeping soundly, and padded into the ensuite to use the bathroom and then wash her face, enjoying the cool water. She gave her teeth a quick brush and swept her hair up into a bun, securing it with an elastic

The bathroom window was open, the cool morning breeze carrying the soft scents of corn and wheat in from the fields. Laura inhaled deeply and smiled, enjoying the quiet as she pulled a nursing bra down from where it had been drying overnight over the shower curtain rod, slipping off her sleep shirt to put the bra on. Her breasts ached slightly, but the extra support helped.

With a quick, automatic glance at her reflection in the mirror, Laura headed back into the bedroom. Moving as quietly as she could so as not to wake the pair in the bed, she eased open a dresser drawer to find a wrap top and pulled it over her head. Straightening back up, she made it to Nate’s crib just as the baby was beginning to stir, his mouth opening and closing as he moved his head back and forth. She reached down and lifted him gently into her arms, cooing softly to him and smiling as he nuzzled against her. “Come on, little love,” she whispered to him. “Down the stairs we go.”

She picked up the baby sling and draped it across her chest, settling Nate into it in an easy, practiced motion. Arms free, she tucked a few flyaway pieces of hair behind her ears and turned to leave the room.

A slight shifting on the bed made her pause and she glanced over her shoulder. Clint and Natasha had rearranged themselves while she had been in the bathroom, and their limbs were now tangled together into an odd, octopus-like formation. Natasha’s head was pillowed on Clint’s chest, her mouth open slightly, her features utterly relaxed in sleep. Clint had one arm thrown over Natasha’s shoulders and the other resting in the empty spot Laura had vacated. One of Natasha’s wayward red curls was dangerously close to Clint’s nose, and Laura, biting both lips to keep from giggling, reached over and carefully moved it away. Clint wrinkled his nose in his sleep, and then his face relaxed again.

Shaking her head with a fond smile, Laura left them to sleep and padded out of the room on bare feet. Both Lila and Cooper’s doors were open and she could hear the television on downstairs, quiet enough that she couldn’t identify what they were watching.

She wrapped a steadying arm around Nate in his sling as she walked downstairs, loosening her grip as she reached the landing. Cooper and Lila were in the living room, Lila on the floor with a coloring book and Cooper sprawled on the couch watching _Wreck-it Ralph_. They looked up as she entered, waving in unison. “Morning, monkeys,” she said, leaning over the back of the couch to kiss the top of Cooper’s head.

He wrinkled his nose in a perfect imitation of his father but allowed it. “Morning, Mom.”

Lila had already gotten to her feet, climbing up onto the couch to give Laura a hug. Laura smiled, folding her daughter into her arms and inhaling the smell of her hair. Some things, she thought, simply never got old. Lila bent her head to put a kiss on Nate’s forehead. “Gentle,” Laura cautioned, but she knew she didn’t need to. Lila was a thrill-seeker and risk-taker, but only with herself, and had treated Nate with wonder and care since first laying eyes on him. “Good girl.”

“Mom, there’s a car in the driveway,” Cooper said, pushing himself up onto his elbows and peering at her. “Is somebody here?”

Laura straightened up. “Auntie Nat came in last night,” she said, and then immediately put a finger to her lips before the kids’ immediate expressions of ecstatic glee could turn into shouting. “And she and Daddy are still sleeping, so let’s wait until she comes down on her own, okay?”

The kids faces fell but they nodded, returning to their respective activities. Laura glanced around them and saw two empty mugs and equally empty bowls, and made a face. Cooper was allowed to use the stove now, and both kids knew that Saturday mornings meant they were allowed sugary cereals, and she suspected that the mugs had been full of marshmallowed hot chocolate. She shook her head, idly praying to whatever deity made decisions about children’s teeth that one day of sugar a week wouldn’t melt her kids’ teeth away, and headed for the kitchen.

Someone--Laura suspected Clint, but it might have been Lila--had already set out a mug and the box of her favorite tea by the stove, and the kettle was still mostly full. Laura put the kettle on and made quiet hushing noises to Nate, who was beginning to fuss in his sling. “Give me a few more minutes, baby,” she murmured to him. “Let Mommy get her things together.”

Miraculously, Nate settled long enough for the water to boil and for Laura to fix herself her mug of tea. She carried it, along with a tall glass of water, over to the kitchen table, settling herself in her favorite chair and picking up her e-reader. Her back twinged, and she winced. “Coop,” she called. A head of tousled brown hair appeared over the back of the couch. “Can you bring me my back pillow, please?”

Cooper’s head disappeared, and the rest of him reappeared a moment later, her curved lumbar pillow in one hand. He brought it over to her and even fitted it behind her back for her. “Thanks, love.”

“You’re welcome.” He reached down and stroked one hand over Nate’s nose, smiling his Big Brother smile, and Laura watched him with a smile of her own. “He’s gonna have Dad’s nose, I bet.”

“Poor kid,” Laura said, and Cooper snickered. She ruffled his hair and he went back to his movie, leaving Laura free to pull the loose wrap of her shirt aside and unfasten one side of her nursing bra, setting Nate to her nipple. He made a pleased sound and set to suckling, one tiny fist curled against the curve of her breast. Laura supported him with one arm, using the same hand to pick up her book, and settled back to enjoy her tea.

As challenging, exhausting, and occasionally painful as exclusive breastfeeding was, Laura loved these moments, the sweet tenderness of sitting with her baby and knowing she was giving him everything he needed. She’d breastfed Cooper and Lila as well, and had quietly mourned when she’d weaned them, knowing that they’d never have the same sort of closeness again. She hummed softly to herself, sipping her tea as Nate nursed and half-listening to the scratch of Lila’s crayons and the dialogue of Cooper’s movie.

She’d finished her tea and was getting into a truly excellent chapter of her book when the commotion in the living room started, both kids clamboring to their feet with gleeful cries of “Auntie Nat!” Laura looked up in time to see her children throwing themselves at a sleepy-looking Natasha, who had just emerged from the staircase, her hair a fiery halo of tangled curls. Natasha stumbled back a step at the force of the embrace but wrapped her arms around them, kissing the tops of their heads.

Laura smiled, lowering her eyes back to her book and giving Nat her time with the children. Cooper and Lila adored Natasha and always had, though Laura knew it was a slightly different sort of love. Natasha had been _Mama Tasha_ to Cooper before she had been _Auntie Nat_ , and Laura sometimes heard him stumble, unsure of what to call her. To Lila she had always been a favorite aunt, and remembering that always put a lump into Laura’s throat.

_She had her reasons,_ Laura reminded herself, shifting slightly in her chair. _She had her reasons._

After admiring Lila’s coloring and laughing at something Cooper said about his movie, Natasha made her way to the kitchen table. Laura smiled at her. “Good morning, sunshine.”

“Good morning.” Natasha ran her fingers through her hair, grimacing slightly. Her expression softened as she looked down at Nate. “How’s my traitorous namesake today?”

“Hungry,” Laura said, and meant it. Nate was growing, and his feedings were getting longer. “How did you sleep?”

“Like a vaguely smothered rock,” Natasha said with a wry smile. She picked up Laura’s empty mug. “Do you want another cup?”

“Please. There’s coffee in the usual place, if you’d like it.”

Natasha nodded, taking Laura’s mug and disappearing behind her. Laura heard the click-click-click- _whoosh_ of the gas stove turning on, the crinkling of a bag of coffee, the buzzing of the burr grinder-- _Oh, coffee,_ Laura thought wistfully--and finally the distinctive hum of the coffee machine turning on. “Milk and honey, yeah?” Natasha called to her.

“Mm,” Laura confirmed. She put her book down and pulled Nate off her nipple, rearranging her sling, shirt, and bra to set him to her other breast. He had just settled into his second half of breakfast when Natasha returned, two steaming mugs in her hands. “Thank you,” Laura said as Natasha set hers down within easy reach. “You still look tired,” she noted, watching Natasha sit down next to her and curl her hands around her mug. “Are you feeling okay?”

Natasha nodded, turning her mug in her hands. “It’s been a long few weeks,” she said. There were faint circles under her eyes, and Laura knew that anywhere else but here, she would have covered them with makeup before even emerging from a bedroom. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be a teacher. Or a mentor.”

Laura raised her eyebrows. “You’re mentoring?”

“Something like that.”

Memory clicked. “Oh,” Laura said. “Wanda?” She hadn’t met the girl herself, but Clint had talked about her, and even raised the idea of inviting her to stay with them.

“Nate’s got her brother’s name,” he’d said. “Seems only right for her to meet him.”

“Wanda,” Natasha confirmed. “She’s working hard, but…” She sipped her coffee. “The loss is fresh for her,” she said. “And it’s all there at the surface, just waiting to boil over. Anger, and grief, and pain. And her powers are so tuned to her emotions…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “I don’t know what to say to her,” she said finally. “She doesn’t need a mentor. She needs her brother. And I can’t give her that.”

“No,” Laura agreed. She picked up her mug, inhaling the sweet, honey-scented steam. “What kinds of things does she say?”

Natasha looked down into her coffee, her expression quiet and thoughtful. “She doesn’t, really,” she said after a long moment. “I look at her body language, at what her face says. But she doesn’t talk about it.”

Laura tried to imagine being twenty, alone in a strange country and surrounded by strange people, having just lost the person who had been the other half of herself since conception. She shuddered at the thought, tightening her arm around Nate. “Maybe she needs to,” she said.

Natasha hesitated, her coffee mug in her hands. “That’s not really my strong suit,” she said.

“Nat,” Laura said, reaching out and curling one hand over Natasha’s wrist. Natasha looked up at her, her expression drawn and uncertain, and took her hand away from her mug to wrap her fingers around Laura’s. “All you have to do is listen to her,” she said, as gently as she could. “She’s scared, and she’s alone. She needs to know that someone is there for her. She needs to know she’s allowed to feel.”

For a moment, Natasha regarded her in silence, her green eyes thoughtful. And then she smiled, soft and slow. “I missed you,” she said.

Laura squeezed her hand. “I missed you, too.”

Nate pulled his mouth away from her nipple with a yawn, and Laura released Natasha’s hand to tend to him, lifting him out of the sling and propping him onto her knee to burp him. Natasha watched quietly, her chin resting in her palm, sipping at her coffee. “How are _you_ feeling, Laura?” she asked. Her tone was gentle, curiosity mixed with slight concern.

“Squishy,” Laura said, patting Nate’s back. He let out a satisfied little burp and both women laughed at the sound and the surprised expression on Nate’s infant face that followed it. “Not bleeding as much anymore, though. A bit of light spotting.”

“That must be a relief.”

Laura gave an emphatic nod. She started to put Nate back into his sling, and then paused. “Do you want to hold him?”

Natasha hesitated. Laura waited, giving her time to think. After a long moment, she nodded, and Laura unwrapped the sling and passed it over. Natasha settled it across her chest and then held out her arms for Nate, who settled sleepily into them with a contented sound. Natasha’s lips curved into a smile and she murmured to the baby in Russian as she put him into the sling the way Laura had first taught her with Cooper almost nine years ago. Laura watched her, smiling, her heart swelling with love.

Hormones made tears prickle at her eyes. “Dammit,” Laura muttered, reaching for the box of tissues on the windowsill. Cooper and Lila had both inherited Laura’s family’s horrendous allergies, and there were boxes of tissues in every room of the house, almost always in arm’s reach. Laura had been blessedly skipped by the allergy gene, but she was grateful for them now, dabbing at her eyes.

“Are you alright?”

Sniffling, Laura nodded, meeting Natasha’s concerned eyes. “Fine,” she said. “I’m fine.”

Natasha tilted her head to one side, her mussed curls falling with the motion. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing, really.” Laura put her tissue aside--she didn’t have Clint’s aim, and the trash can was at an awkward angle from the table--and managed a watery smile. “I just...I missed this. Sitting here with you in the mornings. Seeing you holding the babies. You always stay away too long.”

Something Laura couldn’t quite identify ghosted across Natasha’s features, her smile faltering slightly before restoring itself. “I know I do,” she said. She looked down at her namesake, now dozing contentedly in his sling, and smoothed his wispy hair down with gentle fingers. “There’s been a lot going on,” she said after a long moment of silence. “I’ve been...I burned a lot of bridges. All of my aliases. All of my SHIELD ones, anyway. I’ve been trying to figure out who I am now. What I want.”

Laura picked up her mug of tea, giving herself something to do with her empty hands, and sipped at it. Natasha had mixed it perfectly, adding just the right amounts of milk and honey. “Well,” she said carefully. “I can’t say I know what you’re going through. But if you need a safe place to think it through…”

Natasha looked thoughtful, swaying slightly in her chair to rock Nate in the sling. It seemed to be an unconscious, instinctual movement, and Laura didn’t comment on it. After a long moment, she smiled, almost teasing. “I don’t know,” she said. “Might be a little loud to get any good thinking in.”

Laura laughed, saluting Natasha with her mug. “A little noise might be good for you,” she said.

Natasha gazed around the room, taking in the toys scattered around the floor, the drawings on the refrigerator, the soft sounds of bickering from the living room as Cooper and Lila argued over what movie to watch next. She looked down at Nate’s sleeping face, and then back up at Laura. Her expression, Laura thought, looked almost peaceful. “You know,” she said. “I think it just might.”

**1996**

“I met a girl in Milan,” Clint says when he and Nat are finally in the same place again, holed up in her cozy London apartment.

It’s not the first thing he says. The first thing he says is “Hello, gorgeous,” and she twines her fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck and says, “You look like shit, Barton,” and then neither of them says much of everything for the better part of two hours, focusing instead on relearning one another’s bodies with lips and hands and tongues.

After that, though, when they’re lying tangled and panting in sheets damp with sweat and come and a bit of blood from where one of Clint’s half-healed knife wounds had split open, Clint says, “I met a girl in Milan.”

Natasha lifts her head from his shoulder, propping herself on one elbow to study his face. His features are still sated and relaxed, and he’s gazing at her with unfiltered affection. If she was anyone else, Natasha thinks, she would have called it love. “Your Italian got you far enough to hook up with a girl in Milan?” she teases, running one forefinger down the center of his chest.

“Ha, ha.” He catches her hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the tips of her fingers. “No, she was American. She picked me up in a bar.”

She can’t help but laugh at that. “Did you swoon?” Clint nips at her pinky finger and Natasha kisses his shoulder in apology. “What was she like?”

“She was friendly. Funny.” He runs his thumb over the backs of her knuckles, looking up at the ceiling. “Studying art history.”

There’s something almost wistful in his voice, and Natasha carefully doesn’t frown. Usually Clint is playful and teasing when he tells her about his exploits, and Natasha is often the same. This is different. “It seems like you liked her.”

Clint is quiet for a few moments. “She reminded me of home,” he says. “Something in her voice, in the way she talked, the way her hair smelled. She made me feel calm.” He turns his gaze back to her. “Like you do, almost, but in a different way.”

Now, Natasha does frown. “Explain.”

He plays with her fingers, his expression thoughtful. Natasha watches his face, appreciates the way the afternoon sunlight plays around his features. Sometimes she catches herself marveling at the changes in his face over the past five years, can’t help but be amazed at the way normal people age. She likes to watch him when he’s thinking, the way his eyes go distant, as if he’s reaching deep inside himself to find the perfect words. He’s rarely quiet like this, even on jobs, and Natasha always finds it oddly fascinating to see.

When he finally answers, his voice is quiet and calm. “There’s a sense of peace I get when I’m taking a shot,” he says. “A sense of knowing exactly what I’m doing, of feeling safe and comfortable in my own skin. For a long time, lining up a shot, pulling back on a bowstring, taking that last breath before loosing--that was the only time I’d feel that. Then there was you, and I realized I could feel that way with a person, too.”

Natasha smiles, reaching with her free hand to brush her fingers through his hair. He quirks the corner of his mouth into a grin. When they’d met, Clint had been nineteen, just this side of scrawny, with a look in his eyes that spoke of abandonment and underfeeding. It had been his bow that caught her eye in that narrow Detroit alley, and the spark in his eyes when he’d looked at her. She’d surprised herself as much as him when she’d offered him a place to sleep that night. Over pad thai and bandages, he’d asked curious questions and she’d given curt answers, and something in his easy grin had made her heart flutter.

He’d been by her side since, and she hadn’t regretted a day of it. Now, she props her chin on her hand. “And you get the same feeling from this girl? You just met her.”

It comes out more petulantly than she wants it to, and she almost scowls at how unlike her it is. Clint cocks an eyebrow at her, and she rolls her shoulders, an intentional relaxing motion. “I don’t know,” Clint says after a moment, when her expression must have settled back into neutrality. “Something about her made me feel comfortable. Relaxed. Not the way you do. With you it’s like--like coming home to your bed at the end of the day. A place that knows you, that’s there for you, and you sink into it and it’s like it’s made for you.”

He flushes a little, maybe surprised at his own words, and Natasha bends her head to kiss the curve of his shoulder. “Go on,” she says.

“Laura felt like...like when you step into the ocean, and it’s just the right temperature.” Clint shifts a little on the bed, winces as the edges of his wound pull with the motion, and settles back again. “Like the first time you took me to Bali, remember?” At her nod, he goes on, “It feels right, like there’s no adjustment period when you try to figure out if it’s too hot or too cold. You feel like you could just stay there all day, letting the waves wash over you.” He lets his gaze slide back to hers. “I guess it’s corny.”

Natasha smiles despite herself, brushing her fingers through his short hair. “You’re a romantic, Barton. I don’t hold it against you.” Clint makes a face at her, and Natasha laughs. “Will you see her again?” she asks, as casually as she can.

Clint shrugs his shoulders. “She gave me her address back in the States. We’ll see. If it happens, it happens.” He grins lazily up at her, reaching to brush a few errant curls back behind her ear. “Is that jealousy I hear, Miss Romanova?”

She shoves at his shoulder hard enough to push him off the bed and he goes over the side, cackling all the way. Just like that, she feels some of the tension in her shoulders loosen. “Not on your life, Barton,” she says.

Still laughing, Clint rolls up onto his knees, leaning folding his arms on the bed and leaning his chin on them. “Hey,” he says. “You know I’d choose you, right?”

Natasha raises her eyebrows at him, stretching across the bed to mirror his position. Their noses nearly touch. “Over a girl who makes you feel like the ocean in Bali?”

Clint looks at her, and the look in his eyes is so intense it makes her shiver. “Tasha,” he says quietly, so low and calm and earnest she can’t disbelieve it, “I’d choose you over anyone.”

There’s nothing she can say to that without her voice giving away the sudden lump in her throat, so Natasha pulls him back onto the bed and into her arms. Clint kisses her and she wraps herself around him, and if he notices that her hands tremble as she slides them around his waist, he’s enough of a gentleman not to comment.

**2015**

By the time Clint came downstairs, stumbling over the landing like a zombie and his hair doing a remarkable impression of being stuck into an electrical outlet, Natasha and Laura had gotten deep into a conversation about Eastern European religious art, while Cooper and Lila had begun their third disagreement about what one of the adults in the house should make them for lunch. Natasha watched, amused, as the kids leapt off the couch to tackle their father, who went down in a sprawling heap of small limbs and pajamas. She’d seen Clint maintain perfect balance on a wet rooftop in Beijing with two bullet wounds in his body, but somehow all coordination abandoned him in his own home.

“Never gets old,” Laura snickered beside her. Natasha clinked her coffee mug--now twice refilled--against Laura’s glass of lemonade.

Clint hauled himself up out of the pile of children and back to his feet. “Off, beasts,” he grumbled. Lila attached herself firmly to Clint’s left leg while Cooper made an impressive leap up and onto Clint’s back, and Clint bent under the sudden weight. He straightened up with effort that was probably more feigned than real. “I don’t know what I expected,” he said with a sigh, and began making slow progress into the kitchen, dragging his left leg and its clinging, giggling weight behind him. “Thanks for the help, ladies,” he said dryly as he passed the table.

“I’m holding your child,” Natasha said, indicating the sleeping bundle in her arms.

“I _grew_ your child,” Laura added. “Forgive me for taking bit of a sit-down now and again.”

Clint made a face at them both. “Guilt,” he said. “Great.” He shuffled over to the coffee machine, poured himself a large mug, and then came back to the table, setting it down. “Okay,” he huffed, and leaned suddenly forward, reaching his arms back. Cooper flipped over the top of his head with a surprised yelp, and Clint grabbed him by the hips in an easily controlled motion, setting him down on the floor. “Off you go, monkey,” he said.

“Aw, Dad,” Cooper whined.

“Don’t aw, Dad, me,” Clint said, prying Lila’s arms from around his legs. “You don’t want an unconscious parent making your lunch, do you?”

“Mac and cheese!” Lila chirped, allowing herself to be unwrapped with the compromise of being plopped unceremoniously onto Clint’s lap.

He reached around her for his coffee, taking a long sip. Natasha held back a laugh. Most of the other instances in which that level of bliss appeared on his face would certainly not have been acceptable around his children. From the muffled giggling behind Laura’s glass of lemonade, she suspected Laura was having a similar thought. “Not mac and cheese,” Clint said after a long moment, lowering his mug. “I’m assuming you’ve both been eating mostly sugar all morning?”

“And milk,” Cooper said. “There was milk. Milk is good for us!”

“Go to law school,” Natasha told him. He beamed at her.

“There have been no nutrients in the kids’ meals thus far,” Laura said, setting her lemonade on the table. “Don’t let them convince you otherwise.” She got to her feet. “On that note, I will now be turning parenting over to the two of you. I am going to go take a shower, which I have definitely earned.” She kissed Natasha’s cheek, ruffled Clint’s hair, and made her way up the stairs.

Natasha watched her go, unable to hide a smile at the slight bounce the prospective shower had put into Laura’s step. She looked at Clint, who had followed Laura’s exit with the look of an adoring puppy, and rolled her eyes. “She sure married down.”

“Hey,” Clint protested. “Kids, don’t listen to a word your Aunt Nat says. Mom loves me.”

“Mommy said you should make mac and cheese,” Lila said solemnly, turning huge brown eyes up to her father.

Clint narrowed his eyes at her. She widened hers. He leaned forward and attempted to bite her nose, and she squealed, diving off his lap. Clint caught her easily in one arm and tossed her over his shoulder, climbing back to his feet and grabbing his mug with his spare hand. “Come on, nuggets, lets go look at the pantry.”

Natasha leaned her head back. “Feed the children a vegetable, Clint,” she said.

“Yes, dear,” he called over his shoulder.

She shook her head fondly, returning her attention to her coffee. Her namesake made a quiet snuffling, turning in his sleep. Carefully, she tilted his chin around to keep him from burying his face in the fabric of the sling. He didn’t seem to mind, just parted his lips slightly. She hummed quietly and slipped her pinky finger into his mouth, and he suckled on it for a few moments before relaxing into sleep again, mouth going slack. “Where was all this sleeping last night, little hawk?” she murmured to him.

Despite Nate’s frequent wakings, Natasha couldn’t deny that she’d slept better here, in a crowded bed beside a crying baby, than in her large, empty, quiet room in the Avengers training complex or in any of her safe houses. She’d woken in the morning to bright sunlight, found Laura gone but Clint still in bed, twined around her and mouthing contentedly at her bare shoulder. For a few moments, she had allowed herself to enjoy the contact, to enjoy feeling held and comfortable and warm in his arms. The bed was as well-worn as ever and seemed to remember her shape, and she had closed her eyes again, let herself sink a little deeper into the sheets and blankets, curled her fingers around Clint’s arm.

She’d gotten up only when her bladder had made it clear she wouldn’t be going back to sleep. She’d been tempted to wake Clint as well, but decided against it.

A quiet morning with Laura seemed to have done her as much good as the sleep, and she felt more than a little refreshed. She hadn’t realized, she thought, sipping her coffee, just how exhausted she had been by the last few weeks. Even before Ultron, weariness had begun to seep into her bones. And then there was Ultron, and Bruce, and Sokovia, and Nate’s birth, and then back to the training center to start whipping the new roster into shape, all the while scanning the skies, the frequencies, even her Twitter feed for signs of Bruce’s return.

“I do not think the big man is coming back,” Wanda had told her once, quietly, as they stood together on the balcony, watching the stars.

“You never know,” Natasha had said, but it had felt hollow even then. She had pulled Bruce towards her with talks of monstrosity, and then pushed him into his biggest fear even as she’d told him she adored him. If Bruce did come back, she thought, it wouldn’t be for her.

She hadn’t been sure, at the time, what had finally driven her away from the training center, brought her to book a flight to Waterloo and rent a car for the drive out here. Exhaustion, maybe, or perhaps just a need for some peace and quiet, a return to a place where she could shed all of her layers of professionalism and calm and simply relax. Yet when she had packed a bag and headed to the nearest airport, it hadn’t been her apartment in New York or her condo in DC or her London townhouse or any number of hidden bolt-holes she kept around the world that she’d flown to, but a creaking, busy farmhouse in Iowa.

Even after all these years, when the long-buried childish part of her that hadn’t truly been a child for the better part of a century thought _I want to go home_ , it was the farmhouse and its occupants that called to her like a siren song.

Commotion from the direction of the pantry brought her attention back to the present, and Natasha shifted around in her chair to see Clint coming back into the kitchen, his arms no longer full of children but now full of an assortment of food. Lila and Cooper trotted in on his heels. Lila had Clint’s coffee mug in her hand, and put it on the counter. “What’s the verdict?” Natasha called.

“Grilled cheese and tomato soup,” Clint said, setting a loaf of unsliced--probably homemade, Natasha thought--bread and some sealed jars of something red onto the kitchen counter. He turned and rummaged around in the refrigerator, coming up with some onions, blocks of cheese, and what appeared to be a bottle of ketchup. Natasha made a face. Clearly, Clint’s kids had inherited his palate. Clint looked down at Cooper and Lila, who were hovering around the counter, and cocked an eyebrow. “Are you helping, or watching?”

“Watching,” they chorused.

He waved his hands at them. “Shoo,” he said. “You’re going to get stepped on.” The kids made identical faces at him and made their way back to the living room. “And Cooper, it’s Lila’s turn to pick a movie,” Clint called after them.

“Told you,” Lila said smugly, flipping one of her braids over her shoulder. Cooper looked like he was thinking about pushing her, and Natasha narrowed her eyes at him. He seemed to think better of it, shooting her a guilty look and following his sister back to the couch.

Satisfied that she’d helped avert a conflict, Natasha got to her feet and headed into the kitchen. She glanced at Clint’s coffee mug, saw that it was empty, and refilled it for him, setting it down next to the hand that wasn’t casually slicing onions. “Here.”

He looked at it and grinned at her. “Aw, Nat. You do care.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Drink your coffee, Barton. I don’t want you chopping your fingers off.”

“I would never,” he protested, but put his knife down, picking up his mug. He leaned against the counter and sipped his coffee, looking at her. The side of his mug read “NOPE NOT TODAY” in large black letters, and she couldn’t help a snort of amusement. Clint raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said. In the sling across her chest, Nate woke, moving from side to side. Natasha wrapped an arm around him, bouncing him gently, and he started making soft, happy noises at the motion. “You like the bouncing, little bird?” Natasha asked him, looking down at his face. Nate’s blue eyes were open, starting to peer around, and fixed on her face with a smile. “Just like your big brother, hm?”

Clint smiled, his eyes soft as he looked at her. “You remember that?”

Natasha glanced up at him. “Of course,” she said, and meant it. She had been there for Cooper’s birth and for most of the first three years of his life. She had been there for Lila’s birth, too, but things were already changing by then, and Lila, she knew, saw her more as a beloved aunt than a third parent. That had been Natasha’s own choice, and she didn’t regret it, but she still found herself looking at Lila’s baby pictures and feeling her heart wrench when she remembers that she missed Lila’s first steps, first words. Sometimes she looked at the girl herself, her features relaxed in sleep after Natasha had read her a bedtime story or settled beside her for a late-night movie, and marveled at how different she looked from even a month before, each passing moment taking her further from the tiny creature Natasha had held after her birth.

“Nat?” Clint’s voice brought her gently back, and Natasha looked up at him, finding herself blinking more than usual. “You with me, Red?”

She swallowed hard and nodded, pushing her hair back. It felt mussed and tousled under her fingers, and she focused in on the sensation. “Is one of those going to be for me?” she asked, nodding at the assembly line of sandwich makings Clint had begun to set up, neatly sliced onions and cheese and pieces of bread. He had opened two of the large jars and they sat beside a saucepan on the stove, presumably waiting to be poured in.

If Clint noticed that she had pointedly side-swept any questions about her thoughts, he didn’t comment. “As many as you want,” he said. He narrowed his eyes playfully as he threw a few pieces of butter into a large pan on the stove, setting them to melt. “You don’t get fed right when I’m not around.”

“Says the guy who lives off Chinese take-out and pizza when not at home,” Natasha countered.

Clint buttered both sides of two slices of bread and put them into the pan, then leveled a spatula at her. “I see your sass, and I don’t appreciate it.”

“I see your face and I don’t appreciate it,” Natasha said, just to annoy him. She lifted Nate out of his sling and bounced him in her arms, wanting to feel his whole weight, cradle it close. Clint stuck his tongue out at her.

“The maturity in this room is truly overwhelming,” Laura said, coming back into the room. She looked miles more awake now that she’d showered, her dark hair damp around her shoulders. She had slipped into a loose-fitting dress with an empire waist, the kind she always favored during pregnancy and in the first few months after giving birth. “Really, it’s inspiring.”

“She started it,” Clint said.

Natasha rolled her eyes, sending Laura a despairing look. Laura laughed, light and sunny, slipping around Clint to pour the two jars of soup into the saucepan on the stove. “How’s Nate doing? Causing you any trouble?”

“He’s been great. Woke up a few minutes ago.” She turned him in her arms as she spoke, settling him belly-down across her forearm and rocking him back and forth, a trick she’d picked up from Clint. “He’s just looking around.”

“I wonder where he gets that?” Laura smiled at Clint, who reached over with his non-spatula hand to pinch her cheek playfully. “Get ready to have ‘Let it Go’ back in your head for the next few months, by the way,” she said as she picked up a large spoon to stir the soup. “The kids seem to have finally picked a movie.”

Clint groaned. “I just got it out of my head.”

Natasha raised her eyebrows. “Is that what you were humming in the Quinjet a few months ago?”

“One more word out of you, Romanoff, and I’ll tell Lila you want to play Elsa and Anna all afternoon,” Clint said mildly. He flipped over a sandwich, watching its color the way Natasha was used to seeing him watch targets. For some reason, it made her smile. Leaving the sandwiches, he turned to one of the cabinets to take down a stack of plates, setting them on the counter beside the stove. “How are we on soup?”

“Another minute or two,” Laura said.

Natasha watched them move around each other, seamlessly exchanging dishes, short instructions, the occasional smile. They handled each other in a kitchen the way Natasha and Clint handled one another on the battlefield, perfectly in tune with one another’s movements and thoughts. Clint reached back to accept a mug of soup from Laura before she’d finished extending her arm, Laura leaned forward to take a bite of caramelized onion from Clint’s fingers before he’d completely turned around. It was fascinating to watch and Natasha never got tired of it, her heart swelling in her chest.

“Lunch, monkeys,” Clint called when the soup had been ladled into mugs and the sandwiches put onto plates, and Natasha stepped back in amusement as Cooper and Lila pounded in from the living room. He passed them each a plate and a mug. “Table,” he instructed.

Lila pouted. “But Daddy, _Frozen_!”

“You’ve seen it a hundred times, Lila,” he said, looking exasperated. “You’ll be okay if we pause it.”

“Alternatively,” Laura said mildly, “Three adults could eat lunch in peace and quiet.”

Clint looked at her, cocked an eyebrow, and then turned back to his daughter. “Back to the couch with you.”

Lila cheered, scampering back to the living room with Cooper on her heels. “Carefully,” Laura called after them, wincing slightly. “At least _try_ not to spill.”

“Sofa’s had worse,” Clint said. He passed Laura a plated sandwich and then picked up two mugs in one hand, and a plate in the other. “I’ve got yours, Nat.”

Natasha tucked Nate back into his sling, pausing to pick up Clint’s coffee cup as they went back to the table. She traded it for a mug of soup and he set the plate with its two sandwiches between them. Laura settled down on Natasha’s other side, leaning over to rest her chin on Natasha’s shoulder and look down at Nate. Natasha turned her head automatically, breathing in the smell of Laura’s conditioner, a sweet, jasmine-lavender scent. Laura caught the motion and smiled, reaching up to run her hand through Natasha’s hair before she leaned back. “He might start fussing for his lunch soon,” she said, picking up her mug of soup. “I’ll take him when he does.”

“He’s fine here in the meantime,” Natasha said, picking up the half of sandwich Clint handed her.

Clint picked up his own sandwich. “Am I going to get to hold my kid again any time soon now that there’s two of you?”

“Someone needs to change diapers,” Laura teased. He made a face at her. Natasha reached over and scritched his neck, and he gave her a grin. Laura sipped her soup, looking at Natasha. “I made up a guest bed for you and brought your bag upstairs,” she said. “I hope that’s all right.”

Natasha smiled. “Thank you,” she said, hearing what wasn’t said. She’d come in too late last night, her only options the downstairs couch or Clint and Laura’s bed, but today there was enough time to set things up. Trust Laura to always give Natasha as many choices as she could. “I’ll shower in your bathroom, though.”

Laura nodded. “Probably best,” she agreed. “Otherwise I can’t guarantee your safety from rogue rubber duckies.”

The sandwich was good, the ketchup and caramelized onions pairing together oddly well, and the soup was spicy and rich. Natasha relaxed, feeling warm and comfortable as she half-listened to Clint and Laura talk about the schedule for the upcoming week, who would take Cooper to lacrosse and Lila to gymnastics, Clint’s plans for the dining room renovation, Laura’s most recent conversation with her mother. It was calm and mundane and Natasha smiled, rocking Nate easily in her arms. Even with Tony and Thor gone, the Avengers training facility was constantly in motion, loud and busy and frantic in a way that the farm--despite Cooper and Lila’s ever-present voices and pounding feet--could never be. Between sparring practices, drills, and the general clamor that arose whenever too many superheroes ended up in a room together, Natasha sometimes found herself feeling like she hadn’t had a peaceful moment in weeks.

It was different here.

Nate began to fuss in his sling, opening and closing his mouth and attempting to nose at Natasha’s breast. “No luck there, little bird,” she told him, unable to suppress a slight laugh.

Laura looked equally amused. “Here,” she said, holding out her arms. “I’ll take him. Don’t worry about the sling.” She slipped the strap of her dress over her shoulder, unfastening the same side of her nursing bra to set Nate against her breast. She winced briefly as he latched, and then relaxed, settling back in her chair. Clint passed her mug back to her, and she smiled at him. “So,” she said, her gaze turning back to Natasha. “Have you given any more thought to how long you’re staying?”

Natasha swallowed another hot sip of soup. “Some,” she said carefully.

Clint glanced at Laura. “It’s not to pressure you,” he said. “Just trying to figure out if we’ll have an extra driver around, you know?”

It was a terrible bluff, bad enough that Natasha raised her eyebrows at him. Laura rolled her eyes and twitched slightly, and Clint winced. Natasha suspected he’d just been kicked under the table. Despite herself, she smiled. “You’ll know as soon as I do,” she said. “How’s that?”

He gave her a wry grin. “Kind of a non-answer,” he said.

“Her favorite kind,” Laura teased gently. Natasha winked at her.

Natasha took care of the lunch dishes, washing them at the sink while Clint dried and Laura stayed at the table, nursing Nate and keeping a mindful eye on Lila and Cooper in the living room. The warm water was soothing on her hands and she let herself get lost in the task, soaping and rinsing the dishes and gazing out the window in front of the sink. It was a gorgeous day, the sun shining over the fields around the house. A light breeze brought the scents of corn and wheat into the room, and Natasha closed her eyes, breathing it in.

Warm hands settled on her hips and Natasha smiled, turning off the water and leaning against Clint’s chest. Her body knew his easily, conforming against the weight and curvatures of his body. She turned her head to inhale his scent, long-familiar and mostly unchanged over the years. “I need to go up and shower,” she murmured.

“Okay.” Clint didn’t move.

She reached back with one arm, skimming her fingers under the hem of his t-shirt and over his skin. He hummed contentedly, dropping his face down against her shoulder. Natasha let herself relax into the contact for a moment, and then tapped his hip. “Clint,” she said. He made another sound, more disgruntled this time, but let her go. Natasha turned to look up at him, laying her fingers over his cheek. He leaned into her palm and she smiled, stroking her thumb over his cheekbone.

There was a crash from the living room, followed by the unmistakable sound of a little girl bursting into tears, and Clint tensed, his head whipping around. “Cooper,” he said sternly, voice slightly raised.

Cooper’s head appeared over the back of the couch, wearing a guilty expression so absolutely inherited from his father that Natasha had to suppress a laugh. “Oops,” he offered.

Clint sighed, going to investigate. Natasha watched him go, then turned to look at Laura, who was watching her with a soft, tender expression. “Hey,” she said softly.

Laura smiled. “Hi,” she said.

“I’m going to go up and shower.”

Laura inclined her head. “Okay.”

She didn’t say anything more, and Natasha was grateful for it. Laura had an ability to speak volumes with her eyes, and Natasha could read love and sadness and longing in her expression. She touched Laura’s shoulder as she passed, lingering for a moment and closing her eyes as Laura tilted her head just enough to brush Natasha’s arm, and then slipped from the room.

In the living room, Lila’s sobs had been reduced to sniffles as she sat in Clint’s lap on the floor, Cooper looking mildly put out as he sat in the corner of the couch. Another movie was starting, and Natasha recognized the opening of _Brave_ and felt her lips curl in a smile. Clint caught her eye as she passed and shrugged his shoulders, and she dipped her head to him, heading upstairs.

The guest room that had become Natasha’s favorite over the years faced the east, bathing her with sun in the mornings when she stayed here. Laura had made up the bed with light summer blankets, opening the windows to let the early afternoon air in, and Natasha’s simple black duffle sat on the edge of the bed. Natasha dropped onto the mattress with a sigh, breathing in the familiar scent of Laura’s laundry soap.

She felt incredibly peaceful here, relaxed in a way she had never been anywhere else. It wasn’t just the space, she knew, but the people--Clint’s long-familiar comfort, Laura’s softness, Lila’s laugh, Cooper’s easy grin. Love was for children, but Natasha felt like a child here sometimes, childish in a way she had never been allowed to be herself, warm and surrounded by easy affection. For the first time in weeks, a tension she hadn’t even recognized in her chest was beginning to loosen.

With one hand, Natasha opened the zipper of her duffle, fishing inside for her phone. She dialed by memory, and waited for an answer.

In predictable form, Steve answered before the third ring. “Nat,” he said. “How’s your R&R?”

She hadn’t told him where she was going, and Steve hadn’t asked. Natasha wondered, in the back of her mind, if he’d guessed. “Good,” she said. “Feeling better already.”

“Glad to hear it. Something you needed?”

Natasha looked up at the ceiling, taking in the constellations of glow-in-the-dark stars she had helped Cooper place a year ago. “Yes,” she said. “I think...I think I’m going to need a little more time than I thought.”

Steve was quiet for a moment. “Everything all right?”

“It’s fine. I just…” Natasha hesitated. “You remember what I told you? After everything with SHIELD went down?”

“You wanted to figure out who you were.”

“Something like that.” She traced her fingers over the pattern on the bedspread. “I think this is my chance to do it.”

Another pause, and then, “Couldn’t think of a better way to spend a vacation,” Steve said, and Natasha relaxed. “I’ll get in touch with Tony, let him know he’s on call if there’s an emergency. Take as much time as you need, Nat.”

“Thank you,” Natasha said, and meant it.

“No problem. Oh, and--” She could hear the grin in his voice. “Say hi to Barton for me.”

“Cheeky,” she said, but hung up smiling, his laugh ringing in her ears. She put the phone aside, stretching out on the bed and letting herself relax into the familiar mattress. Through the open door, she could hear the sounds from downstairs: Cooper and Lila singing loudly and very slightly off-key along to the movie, Clint and Laura’s laughter. The wind wove lazily around the house, wrapping it in the warm, sweet scents of Iowa summer.

Natasha closed her eyes, relishing the feeling of being comfortable, and peaceful, and calm.

She breathed, and it felt like being home.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is going to be long adventure in relationships, trust, character, and love--otherwise known as an attempt to reconcile my pre-existing OTP and headcanons with the new canon provided by Age of Ultron. Warnings include polyamory, mixing of MCU and comic canon, canon-typical violence, character backstory including histories of child abuse, sexual violence, reproductive violence, sex work, and canon-typical violence. Upcoming chapters aren't yet written, so bear with me in terms of timing. Comments keep me motivated, but every little kudo helps. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end of chapter for notes and warnings.

**1996**

Laura’s phone rings while she’s half-buried in a thick book of Renaissance-era history, struggling through an essay on childbirth trays as Renaissance art. Swearing under her breath at the distraction, she makes a quick note on religious imagery and gets to her feet, looking under papers and books until she finds the cordless phone and answers the call just before the machine picks up. “Pronto,” she says.

“Hey,” the person on the other end says in English. It’s a familiar voice, though she can’t quite place it. “Laura?”

“Speaking,” she says, hoping she’s intelligible around the pen in her mouth.

“It’s Clint. Clint Barton.”

Memories of calloused hands, an easy grin, and more consecutive hours of sex than she’s ever had before rush back to her, and Laura flushes all the way down to her toes. She jerks the pen out of her mouth. “Hi,” she says, and mentally kicks herself for how breathy her voice sounds. “How are you?”

“I’m good--great. You?”

“Good.” She sits down, suddenly wishing the phone had a cord so that she could curl it around her finger the way she used to back in high school, when Travis would call her after dinner. “Struggling through an essay. I--I wasn’t expecting you to call.”

There’s a laugh on the other end of the line, and it sounds almost embarrassed. “Well, I was in the area, and I thought--I was wondering if I could take you out to dinner.”

Laura bites her lip on a smile. She wonders what he’s doing as he talks--she thinks she can hear voices around him, and wonders if he’s at a pay phone. “Why don’t you come over here instead? I’m happy to cook, and it’ll be quieter.”

Clint is quiet for a moment, but when he speaks, Laura thinks she can hear a smile in his voice. “I’d love that.”

“Great!” Laura says, and then flushes, hoping she doesn’t sound too eager. “I don’t know what your schedule’s like--would seven work? Seven-thirty? Do you remember the address?”

“Seven-thirty sounds perfect. And I can find it.” She can _definitely_ hear him smiling. “I’ll pick up some wine on the way. I’ll see you soon, Laura.”

Something about the way her name in his mouth makes her toes curl in her socks. “See you soon,” she echoes. She waits to hear the _click_ of him hanging up and sets down the phone, staring at it for a moment and then looking at her table, completely covered in papers and books and notecards and pens, and then around her small studio apartment, liberally scattered with clothes, shoes, and assorted bags. “Oh, hell,” she mutters, and then cranes her neck to see the clock on the wall. “Oh, _hell_.”

Her doorbell rings at seven-thirty on the dot, and Laura, panting just slightly, sweeps the last of her hair into a loose bun, straightening her glasses on her nose and giving a last look around the apartment that she’d spent the last two and a half hours frantically cleaning. It’s nowhere near perfect, but the bed is made (with clean sheets!), the table wiped clean and set for two, and dinner is nearly finished on the stove, ready to be served hot. She’s showered and dressed, going for sexy-casual, and just has time to realize that she forgot to shave her armpits, and then to figure out it’s too late to do anything about it anyway, as she opens the door.

Clint is standing on the other side of the door, a duffle bag slung over one shoulder and a brown paper bag in his hands. He’s wearing a simple black suit, slightly rumpled, over a white shirt with the top two buttons undone. He grins when he sees her. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Laura says, a little breathless. She looks at the duffle, and raises her eyebrows. “Planning to stay for awhile?”

“What?” He follows her gaze down to his shoulder, and flushes slightly. “No, I just came from a--thing. Didn’t have time to drop it off anywhere. Sorry.”

Somehow, seeing him flustered puts her more at ease. “I’m just teasing,” she says, and steps back to let him in. “Can I put that somewhere for you?”

Clint shakes his head, a little rueful. “It’s pretty heavy,” he says. He holds it like it weighs nothing, but then, Laura’s seen his arms. “Just tell me where to throw it.”

“Over by the bed is fine,” she says. “Can I take the wine, at least?”

“That you can definitely take,” he says, passing the bag over to her. She can feel two bottles and pretends to stagger under the weight, and he laughs, stepping into the apartment so she can shut the door. He brushes his fingertips against her waist as he slips past her to the area of the studio that she’s cordoned off as her bedroom, and the touch makes Laura shiver.

She busies herself in the kitchen, putting the bottle of white wine--a Chardonnay, and that makes her smile--in the small refrigerator to cool while she opens the red to let it breathe. She’s just tasting the bolognese sauce simmering on the stove when Clint comes back. He’s shed his suit jacket and is rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, and she catches sight of a bandage wrapped around the palm of one hand. “Are you okay?”

“What, this?” He holds it up, and she nods. “This is nothing, no big deal. Work thing.”

Laura sets her spoon down. “What’s work for you?”

Clint leans against the counter, slipping his hands into his pockets. Laura makes a concerted effort to look anywhere but his chest, shoulders, or forearms. “Security contracting,” he says.

She cocks an eyebrow at him. “That sounds...cryptic.”

He grins. “It’s a lot of classified international security stuff,” he says. “So it’s only cryptic because it has to be.”

“Is it dangerous?” she asks, curiosity getting the better of her as she remembers how he’d looked the first time they’d met, bandages swathed around his ribs and bruises peppering his torso and face.

“It’s got it’s moments,” he says, and winks. “It keeps life interesting.” His eyes sweep over her, and Laura gets the feeling she’s being analyzed from head to toe. It’s not an unwelcome feeling, she thinks, especially when he smiles. “You look good.”

“Well, I showered,” she says. He laughs, and Laura smiles. “I got some fresh spaghetti from the market down the street. Do you like bolognese?”

“Think I’ve only had it once or twice, but I’m sure it’ll be great.” He runs his uninjured hand through his hair. “Anything I can do to help?”

Laura glances at the table, already set, and then peers into the pot on the stove. “Want to pour the wine?”

“You got it.”

They move around each other with ease that takes Laura by surprise. Clint pours two glasses of wine and brings them over to the table, then comes back for the pasta that she’s drained and put into bowls, each with a healthy ladle of bolognese on top. They exchange a few pleasantries about his flight, how her classes are going, and it’s calm and comfortable. She picks up the bottle of wine and a small bowl of grated parmesan from the market, following him to the table, where he’s pulled out her chair for her. “Such a gentleman,” she says.

Clint chuckles, sliding into the chair across from her. “I try.” He picks up his glass of wine. “What should we toast to?”

Laura thinks for a moment. “Chance meetings?” she suggests.

He smiles. “I’ll drink to that,” he says, and clinks his glass gently against hers.

Dinner is surprisingly tasty, considering how quickly she’d thrown it together, and she makes a mental note to thank her downstairs neighbor for the family recipe the next time they meet in the stairwell. Clint eats like he’s intentionally slowing himself down, taking the occasional sip of wine and asking about her classes, how long she’s staying in Milan, what her plans are when she goes back to the States. The wine is good, and Laura finds herself enjoying it even though she doesn’t usually like reds, conversation flowing easily between them.

As they eat dessert (a strawberry gelato Laura takes out of the freezer and dishes into mugs), Clint props his chin on his uninjured hand. “So,” he says.

Laura takes another bite of gelato. “So,” she says back, gently teasing. “Something you’re curious about?”

“Only sort of.” He takes a sip of his wine, the last of the red. “I want to tell you something.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re pregnant,” Laura says, because he looks nervous, and growing up surrounded by brothers have taught her that the best way to manage nervousness is to joke about it.

It works, and Clint gives a surprised bark of laughter. “No,” he says, grinning. “Dork.” She sticks her tongue out at him, and he laughs again. “It’s not like that,” he says. “It’s just...I like you.”

Laura puts down her spoon and mirrors his posture, resting her chin in her hands. “I like you, too,” she says, and means it. He’s attractive and funny and a little bit of a dork, and something about him makes her feel absolutely comfortable, like pulling on a cozy pair of sweatpants at the end of the day. “Is that a bad thing?”

Clint shakes his head quickly. “It’s an awesome thing,” he says, earnest enough that she laughs. “And you’re awesome, and I want to definitely see you again. All the time. But I want to be honest with you, because you deserve to know what you’d be getting yourself into.”

She straightens up in her chair. Something in his tone is uncertain and a little worried, and she can feel her smile fading off her face. “Okay,” she says, suddenly feeling a little uncertain herself. “Is it about your job?”

“No. Well, yeah, there’s that too, but that’s not the thing I wanted to tell you.”

And _that’s_ a face she’s seen before, the one he has now--his expression looks just like Jake’s had at the end of their sophomore year of college, when he told her he’d been sleeping with his lab partner for a month and a half. “Clint Barton,” she says, feeling a curl of rage in the pit of her stomach. “You had _better_ not be married.”

“ _What?_ ” He looks so incredibly horrified at the idea that she immediately knows he can’t possibly be lying. “Jesus fuck, no. I’d be a horrible husband.”

  
She relaxes. “Good,” she says, but he still looks uncomfortable. “Good, right?”

“It’s kind of up that alley,” he admits.

Her initial response is to throw what’s left of her wine into his face. She restrains herself, but leans back, crossing her arms over her chest. “Talk fast,” she says. “Or I’m throwing you out.”

Clint runs his injured hand through his hair, winces, and puts his hand down again. “There is a girl,” he says. “Well. Woman. She’s my partner. And it’s not an exclusive thing, she knows I’m here and she knows about you, but she’s...She’s there. And I wanted to be honest about her.”

Laura hesitates. Some of the rage is fading, but not all of it. “You didn’t tell me about her last time,” she says.

He shrugs, looking only a little guilty. “We’d just met last time,” he says. “And I didn’t know if I’d see you again.”

She nods, trying to process. “She knows about me?”

“Yes.”

“She knows that you--that you like me?”

He holds her gaze steadily. “Yes.”

Laura chews her lower lip. His eyes flicker down to her mouth, and then back to her eyes. “Would you end things with her? If I asked?”

Clint shakes his head. “No.”

“Oh.” A few wisps of hair have come loose from her bun, and she sweeps them out of her eyes. “But you’re here.”

It doesn’t come out like a question, but he seems to understand that she means it as one. “Because I meant it when I said that I like you,” he says. “When I met you, I felt--I don’t know, good. Relaxed. There was a connection between us, and it wasn’t just sexual. I want to keep seeing you, Laura. I want to spend more time with you, I want to see if things could go somewhere here.”

Laura uncrosses her arms, laces her fingers together. “What does…” she trails off, uncertain of what to call the other woman.

“Natasha,” Clint says, and he says the name like it’s a blessing. Laura swallows hard.

“What does Natasha think about this?”

Clint is quiet for a moment. “She understands that there’s things that she can’t connect with,” he says, after a long silence. “Things we both want that we can’t give to each other, not in a way that would feel right to either of us. So we go other places for those things. It doesn’t mean I love her any less. It just makes our relationship...different.”

Laura takes off her glasses, rubbing her eyes and trying to figure out what to think. The part of her that is possessive and old-fashioned wants to give him an ultimatum or throw him out, but there’s another part of her that feels the same thing he feels--a sense of easiness, of connection, of closeness that she can’t quite place. She wants this man in a way she’s never really wanted anyone before, and it makes her feel nervous, but strangely thrilled. She wonders what this Natasha is like, a woman who will love a man and let him wander with her blessing. She wonders where a relationship like this could go, and why she wants so badly to find out.

  
“Laura,” Clint says quietly. “Do you want me to go?”

She puts her glasses back on and looks at him. He’s watching her patiently, his blue-grey eyes calm and steady. She can see the wanting in them, and an answering flutter in her breast. She opens her mouth, but doesn’t speak.

“Laura?”

“No,” she says.

Clint’s expression falters, uncertain. “No, what?”

“Don’t go,” she says. She reaches across the table, places her hand on his. His hand turns, his fingers curling around hers. His skin is warm, the callouses on his fingers rough against her palm. “Stay,” she says, and Clint smiles.

**2015**

“Daddy, is Auntie Nat sad?”

They were in the back guest room that served as the kids’ playroom, Lila bent over her craft table and Cooper stretched out on his stomach, painstakingly studying the instructions of his _Star Wars_ LEGO set. Clint was at the craft table beside Lila, sketching plans for the dining room renovation on graphing paper, but he put his pencil down, looking at her. “What makes you ask that, love?”

Lila put down her colored pencil. “She looks sad,” she said, peering into her box of pencils. “Like all the sunshine went away.”

Clint raised his eyebrows at her, though she didn’t notice. Most of the time, Cooper was the observant one--he was quieter than his sister, more likely to sit back and watch people than to get into the action. But sometimes Lila surprised him, seeing more than Clint gave her credit for. “Auntie Nat’s had a tough few weeks, baby,” he said carefully, not wanting to say too much. “She works really hard, and I think she’s tired. Sometimes tired looks like sad.”

“Not with Aunt Nat,” Cooper said, looking up from his instructions. “Aunt Nat says when she’s tired, but not when she’s sad. When she’s sad she likes to spend time with us, and she touches more. That’s why she’s with Mom and Nate now.”

Clint had to crack a smile at that, because it was true. Natasha had gone with Laura when she had taken Nate back to his crib for an afternoon nap, and Clint had poked his head into the bedroom half an hour later to see the two women curled up on the bed, Natasha spooned around Laura with her arms looped loosely around Laura’s waist, Laura’s fingers laced through Natasha’s. “She does touch more when she’s sad,” Clint acknowledged, turning his pencil in his fingers.

Lila put her chin in her hands and leaned forward, such a Laura gesture that Clint felt his heart melt. “So why is she sad?”

“She’s…” Clint hesitated, and then put his pencil down, looking between the two of them. “Do you remember Bruce, from when the Avengers came to stay with us?”

“The Hulk,” Cooper said, a hint of excitement slipping into his voice.

Clint shook his head. “Bruce,” he said. “The Hulk is part of him, but Bruce is who you met that day. He and Aunt Nat...they liked each other a lot. But some hard things happened. Some scary things.”

Cooper sobered. “When the city was up in the sky?”

“Yeah,” Clint said, wincing internally. Cooper was getting older now, and more curious with each passing month. Clint and Laura had put parental controls on his tablet to limit what he could look at, but he was a savvy kid, and most news websites had covered Sokovia on their front pages. “Yeah, when the city was up in the sky.”

“That was scary,” Lila whispered.

Her lower lip had started to tremble, and Clint held out his arms to her. She crawled into his lap and curled up, tucking her head under his chin. He kissed the top of her head, wrapping his arms around her. “I know it was scary, baby,” he murmured. “Aunt Nat was scared, too. And so was Bruce. But they both did really, really brave things, and they saved lots and lots of people.”

Cooper sat up, crossing his legs. “Then why is Aunt Nat sad?”

Clint smoothed a hand over Lila’s hair. “She’s sad because Bruce went away,” he said quietly. “For some other reasons, too. But that’s a big part of it. She liked him very much, and she misses him.”

Lila craned her neck to look up at him. “Could she send him a card? Sometimes me and Cooper make cards for you, when you go away.”

“I don’t think so, baby. We wouldn’t know where to send it.” Clint said, thinking of the stacks of cards he had saved from the kids over the years.

Cooper wrapped his arms around his knees. “Maybe she would feel better if she stayed with us for a long time,” he said. “Like she used to.”

Clint looked at him, meeting Cooper’s serious eyes. He wasn’t always sure how much Cooper remembered of those early years, and sometimes it seemed like Cooper knew more about his parents and Natasha than he let on. “Maybe,” he said. “If she wants to.”

“We could ask her to,” Lila offered.

“I don’t think we should,” he said gently. “Aunt Nat needs to feel like she can make her own choices right now. It’s important for her.” Lila frowned, and Clint kissed her forehead. “But we can make her feel loved and special while she’s here.”

Cooper tilted his head. “Like you and Mom do?”

Clint cocked an eyebrow. Cooper looked steadily back at him. “We try to,” Clint said.

Cooper nodded, chewing on his bottom lip. “Do you think she would come to my lacrosse games while she’s here?”

Clint remembered the last time he had been in Natasha’s DC apartment and had stopped in front of her refrigerator, staring at a collage of snapshots of Cooper in his lacrosse uniform, Lila beaming from a balance beam in her leotard, Cooper saving a goal in soccer, Lila sticking a landing after finishing a cartwheel. Laura’s first ultrasound of her pregnancy with Nate was there, too, her due date scrawled on the bottom in Clint’s handwriting. The calendar hanging from the fridge was peppered with dates, Cooper’s games and Lila’s gymnastics meets. “I think she’d like that,” he said, and Cooper smiled.

**1997**

“Clint,” Natasha says, her tone laced with equal parts concern and disapproval. “You’re bleeding on my floor.”

Clint looks guiltily up from the table, meets Natasha’s eyes, and then follows her gaze down to the drops of blood gathering on the hardwood. “Oops,” he offers.

Natasha sighs, putting down the two mugs on the kitchen island and taking a clean towel from the drawer. “What did you open?”

“I’m...actually not sure,” Clint admits, trying to take stock of himself. He’d taken a rough fall on their last job--rough even by his own standards--and has spent the last forty-eight hours hurting in one place or another pretty much consistently. He pats his arms, his sides, and then winces when he finds the tell-tale damp wet patch of blood on his upper thigh. “Found it,” he says, poking the wound with a grimace. “Ow.”

“Well, don’t poke at it, idiot,” Natasha chides him, putting the towel and the first aid kit down on the desk next to Clint’s pile of crumpled pages of notebook papers. “Pants off.”

Clint feigns a sigh, getting to his feet with only a few twinges of pain. “You know, I feel like there used to be some romance in our relationship,” he complains, unfastening his belt.

“You used to bleed less,” Natasha says dryly, watching his hands.

“Now that’s just a lie.” Clint lets his pants fall and kicks them under the table. He leaves his boxers on. With his jeans off, the blood seeping through the bandage around his thigh is a vivid red, and he wonders how he missed that. _Getting sloppy, Barton._

Natasha chuckles. “Fair enough.” She goes gracefully to her knees, taking the first aid kit with her, and carefully cuts away the bandage. “How did you manage this?”

Clint shrugs. “Bad luck, I guess,” he says, reaching down to touch her curls just because he can.

She moves her head just slightly out of his reach. “Don’t distract me while I’m looking at your stitches,” she says, but there’s a smile in her voice. “It looks like you pulled three or four of them. What are you working on up there, anyway?”

He can tell she’s trying to distract him from the antiseptic packet she’s tearing open, and--yep, there’s the sting. He winces, looking up at the ceiling. “Nothing really,” he says. “Just a note.”

“A note?” Natasha sounds like she can’t decide whether to be amused or confused. “Since when do you write notes?”

“Since…” Clint trails off, because she’s got a point, and then has to try not flinch at the sound of her tearing open the sterile needle pack that lives in the first aid kit. Natasha catches his movement and presses an apologetic kiss to his knee, and he smiles. “I don’t know, since now.”  
  


“I see.” She seems to have chosen amusement. Clint looks pointedly at the ceiling beams as she carefully pokes the needle through the skin of his leg, breathing carefully through his nose. “What kind of note?”

Clint hesitates, but decides to go with the truth, because he’s never kept secrets from Natasha and certainly doesn’t plan to start now. “A congratulations note,” he says. “Laura’s graduating college this weekend.”

Natasha’s hands still. “Oh,” she says, her voice carefully flat in the way it always goes when she’s not sure how to feel something. She’s quiet for a moment, resuming threading the needle through Clint’s skin, her hands steady and her movements calm. “Good for her,” she says after a few seconds of tense silence.

Clint relaxes. “Yeah?”

Natasha ties off his last stitch and sits back on her heels, pulling a new gauze pad out of the first aid kit. She doesn’t meet his eyes, but her shoulders are loose as she moves. “Yes,” she says, coming back to flatten the gauze over the re-stitched wound and taping it in place with gentle hands. “It’s an achievement. She must have worked hard.”

“She did,” Clint says, and means it. He and Laura have been dating for a little over a year now, and he’s seen her with circles under her eyes from all-nighters writing papers and studying for exams, made her coffee when she woke up early for an eight a.m. class, coaxed her away from her books to get a few hours of sleep before a big gallery show. “Worked her ass off, honestly. I couldn’t do it.”

“Well, that’s a given,” Natasha teases, getting to her feet. She wipes her hands clean on a towel and picks up the mugs of tea she’d abandoned to work on his stitches, handing him one and sitting down next to him with the other. “To be fair, Northwestern wouldn’t have let you in in the first place.”

Clint makes a face at her. “Thanks a lot,” he says, and Natasha laughs. It makes Clint feel a little easier, seeing her laugh. He doesn’t talk much about Laura with Nat, but it feels strange not to. Natasha has been his other half for so long that he doesn’t like having a part of his life that he doesn’t share with her. She asks questions, sometimes, and Laura does, too, but he never knows quite what to say, not wanting to share too much and make someone upset.

Now, though, Natasha is watching him with a calm smile, sipping at her tea. “What’s she going to do now that she’s done?”

“She’s moving to New York.” Clint picks up his jeans and steps back into them, fastening his belt and trying not to wince as the movements stretch and pull at the fresh stitches. Natasha frowns slightly at him. “Going to graduate school to be an art teacher.”

“That’s very…” Natasha trails off, her expression thoughtful. “Normal,” she says after a moment. Clint’s not quite sure how to take that, so he just raises his eyebrows at her until she elaborates. “Safe,” she says. “And I mean that in a good way.”

Clint cocks his head to one side. “What do you mean?”

Natasha gestures around the room. They’re in Natasha’s townhouse in London, surrounded by the evidence of a lived-in place: books on the shelves, rumpled blankets on the sofa (Clint’s doing, he’d fallen asleep watching a movie the night before), a hodgepodge collection of mugs hanging on hooks in the kitchen. “Our life together isn’t usually like this,” she says. “Calm and quiet. We have some moments of peacefulness, yes, but we spend most of our time with a bit more...excitement.”

‘Excitement,’ Clint knows, is a very diplomatic form of ‘violence and mayhem and crime, oh my!’ “I’m familiar,” he says. “Excitement gets me shot a lot.”

“You have a terrible attitude regarding workplace safety,” Natasha corrects. “And you jump off of things.”

“Potato, po-tah-to.”

She kicks him lightly under the table. “Anyway,” she says, “My point is that it’s good that you have someone who’s safe. Whose biggest worry is paying rent or finding a job, not whether a relative of the mob hitman you took out two weeks ago is going to try and cut your fingers off while you sleep.” She pauses. “He’s not, by the way.”

Clint blinks. “How do you know that?”

“Because someone already cut _his_ fingers off in his sleep.”

He grins. Natasha doesn’t say _I love you_ , tells him all the time that she doesn’t believe in love anyway, but he knows she feels it. He reaches across the table and takes her hand, kissing her knuckles. “I’m lucky,” he says, holding her gaze, “to have you.”

Natasha smiles. “Of course you are,” she says. She takes her hand back and pushes his mug across to him, getting to her feet to retrieve her book from the living room coffee table. “Drink your tea before it gets cold.”

Clint picks up his mug, blowing lightly on the remaining steam. It’s Natasha’s own blend, a mix of chai and spices that she originally picked up somewhere in Mumbai, and it reminds him, every time he drinks it, of the first night he spent with her, when she took him in off the streets of Detroit and gave him a warm place to sleep. “Nat,” he says.

She looks at him over her shoulder at him. The lamplight makes a warm halo around her red hair, painting her skin in shades of gold. “What?”

Clint wraps both his hands around his mug, feeling the warmth of the tea through the ceramic and trying to think of the right words. “I like our excitement,” he says.

Natasha’s lips part slightly, as if she’s trying to decide what to say. After a moment, she smiles. “Good.”

_2015_

After dinner that night--pasta with sauce that Clint managed to sneak two cans of beans into and blend smooth to convince the kids that it was _just tomato sauce, honestly_ \--Clint tucked Nate into the baby sling, Laura corralled Cooper and Lila into long pants and sneakers, Natasha put away leftovers, and the six of them went out for a walk.

It was mid-evening, but the sky was still light and the weather warm, the cooler nighttime breezes still a few hours away. Laura tipped her head back and breathed in the peaceful scents of the land around them as Cooper led the way down the porch and toward the woods. Clint had cleared a number of walking trails over the years and had been taking the kids down them since they were old enough to toddle, and Laura often found herself smiling at how utterly comfortable her children were in the forest, even miles away from home.

Lila slipped her hand into Laura’s as they walked, tugging on it gently. “Mommy,” she said.

Laura looked down at her. Lila was wearing a sweatshirt that Laura was almost entirely sure was Cooper’s, an oversized hoodie with a picture of Captain America’s shield on it. Clint made a face every time he saw it, which amused Laura and the kids to no end. Lila’s braids peeked out from under the hood, and she was looking up at Laura with an earnest expression. “What is it, baby?”

“We didn’t do highs and lows,” Lila said. “We forgot at dinner.”

“We didn’t forget at dinner,” Clint said dryly, looking over his shoulder. “We were just too busy hearing all about how Princess Elsa--”

“ _Queen_ Elsa,” Laura said automatically, and grinned when she realized that Natasha and Lila had chorused it with her.

Clint stuck his tongue out at them. “How _Queen_ Elsa would be a better Avenger than Daddy.”

“Well, she has ice magic,” Lila said, swinging Laura’s hand back and forth in hers. Laura let her, amused. “And then you could stay home with us all the time and not have to go fight bad guys.”

“I don’t know,” Natasha said, a smile in her voice. “It might not be such a bad idea. Might be nice to have more women on the team.”

“Traitor,” Clint said. Natasha winked at him.

Lila reached out and took Natasha’s hand as well, sandwiching herself between the two women. “Highs and lows,” she insisted. “It’s _tradition_.”

“Well, we can’t argue with tradition,” Laura said. “Do you want to go first?”

Sharing the day’s high and low point over dinner had been Laura’s idea, started when Cooper was old enough to start preschool and had come home talking a mile a minute about his day. She had liked the reflectiveness of it, of teaching her kids to think back on their twenty-four hours and finding their favorite parts--and, if they needed to, a least favorite part. You didn’t have to have a low, was the rule, but there had to be a high. There was always something, Laura told the kids when they protested, that was good in a day, even if it was just that you were still there at the end of it.

Lila shook her head. “I don’t want to go first.”

“I’ll go,” Cooper said, turning and walking backwards to look at them.

“Face front,” Clint said.

Cooper made a face, but turned back to the trail just in time to avoid hitting a tree. Laura winced at how close it had been. _Learning experience_ , she reminded herself, knowing that Clint would have pulled him back if he’d been in any real danger. He always did. “My high was building Legos with Dad and Aunt Nat,” he said. “I don’t have any lows.”

“Your dad barely helped,” Natasha said. “He gave a lot of bad advice about block placement.”

Lila tugged at Natasha’s hand. “No being mean in highs and lows,” she scolded.

Natasha looked down at her, her expression softening. “Sorry, love,” she said.

Ever magnanimous, Lila nodded. “That’s okay,” she said. “You can go next.”

Natasha looked thoughtful, keeping her step even with Laura and Lila’s. “My low was stepping on one of Cooper’s Legos,” she said, a slight grin tugging at her lips as Cooper shot her a guilty look over his shoulder. “And my high, I think, was having a nice quiet day with all of you.”

Laura caught her eye and smiled. She squeezed Lila’s hand, and saw Lila squeeze Natasha’s, passing the pulse between them. “That was my high, too.”

Clint glanced back at her with a quick, cheeky grin. “Not your nap?”

“And my nap,” Laura amended, because it had been an excellent nap. Natasha had come to bed with her, curling around her and threading her fingers through Laura’s, and Laura had breathed in the sweet scent of Natasha’s conditioner and body lotion and slept like a (clean, dry, well-fed) baby. “How about you?”

Clint was quiet for a few moments, walking beside Cooper along the woodland trail. “Don’t think I’ve got a low today,” he said. “Maybe getting a bit stuck on the renovation plans.”

“What’s your high, Daddy?” Lila asked, leaning forward and hanging her weight off of Laura and Natasha’s hands, letting them swing her back and forth.

Clint stopped walking, turning to look at them. Next to him, Cooper stopped as well, peering curiously up at his father. Clint had one arm curled around Nate in his sling, and something about seeing Clint holding their baby never failed to make Laura’s eyes mist. “This is my high,” he said, putting one hand on Cooper’s shoulder and crouching down to Lila’s level, leaning forward to drop a kiss to her nose. “Got all my best people, out here on a beautiful night.” He looked up, meeting Laura’s eyes and then letting his gaze shift to Natasha. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “There’s nothing else I need in the world.”

Natasha held his gaze. Laura couldn’t read her expression, but her eyes were tender.

Cooper, it seemed, was getting too old for these sorts of displays, and made a face at his father. “You’re getting corny, Dad,” he said.

Clint straightened up. “Corny, am I?” With one easy motion, he scooped an arm around Cooper’s waist and tossed him over one shoulder. Cooper let out an aborted squeak and struggled briefly, before acknowledging defeat and going limp over Clint’s shoulder.

Nate, to Laura’s amazement, didn’t make so much as a peep. Sometimes Clint’s luck was really unbelievable, though she had no doubt that however wild the motion of swinging Cooper up had looked, Clint had had perfect control over every millimeter of movement. She shot Natasha a glance, and Natasha rolled her eyes back. “I think it was Lila’s turn for highs and lows,” she said dryly.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Clint said, not releasing Cooper as he headed off down the trail again. Cooper squirmed a bit to get his elbows under his chin, propping himself up on Clint’s back to look at his sister. “Go ahead.”

Lila cleared her throat. “ _My_ low,” she said, “was when Cooper made me cry during movie time.”

“Poor Cooper’s getting dragged tonight,” Laura heard Clint mutter. Cooper patted Clint on the back in acknowledgement, and Laura grinned to herself.

“And my high is that Auntie Nat is here with us,” Lila finished. She looked up at Natasha and beamed. Laura, who had been on the receiving end of that thousand-watt smile more than a few times herself, wasn’t surprised when Natasha’s expression turned into something resembling adoration. “Because she colored with me and braided my hair and showed me how to do a super cool backflip thing and it was really fun.”

Natasha smiled. “It was fun,” she said, squeezing Lila’s hand.

Lila bounced slightly as they walked. “Can we do it again tomorrow?”

“Some of it,” Natasha said. She looked past Lila to Clint, a sly grin curving her lips. “Your mom tells me that Daddy is getting out of shape, and I’ve got to spend at least a bit of tomorrow starting to whip him back into world-saving condition.”

“Wa-pssh,” said Cooper, making a whip-cracking motion.

Laura started. “Cooper Barton,” she said. “Where did you pick that up?”

He looked guiltily at her. “Um. School?”

“I don’t think I’d like to hear it again, please,” she said, letting a touch of warning sternness into her tone.

“Sorry, mama.”

_Mom_ only became _Mama_ when he was genuinely apologetic. Laura smiled. “Thank you.”

Clint stopped walking. “Mile marker,” he said, turning around. “What do you think, gang? Home for PJs and story time?”

“I think so,” Laura said, before either of the kids could disagree. If given the option, she knew, they’d both choose to spend most of the night wandering in the woods.

“Can I be leader?” Lila asked, letting her knees go loose and dangling off of Laura and Natasha’s hands. Laura locked her elbow to keep her grip.

“Don’t see why not,” Clint said, leaning down to let Cooper off his shoulder and straightening back up again, keeping one arm secure around Nate while giving Laura a reassuring smile. When they’d first started letting the kids lead their walks into the woods, she had been nervous and uncertain, disliking the idea of them being in control. But the trails were clearly marked, and the kids knew them well even without the markers--better, in any case, than Laura did. Still, night was starting to fall, and she was grateful when Clint added, “Let Cooper walk next to you, since I took leader for some of his turn.”

“Okay,” Lila agreed, dropping her hands from Laura and Natasha’s and scampering ahead.

“Stay within one trail marker of the rest of us,” Clint called, and Lila obediently slowed her step.

“Good girl,” Laura said, smiling after her. Next to her, Natasha looked amused, following Lila and Cooper with her eyes. Laura glanced at her, thought _what the hell, why not_ , and offered her her hand. Natasha hesitated, then smiled and took it, lacing her fingers through Laura’s. Her hand was cool despite Lila’s earlier grip, and Laura held it loosely, giving Natasha plenty of slack to pull away if she wanted to.

A soft hand brushed against her waist and Laura turned to see Clint falling into step beside her. “Hey,” she said, smiling at him. She looked down at Nate, tucked close against Clint’s chest in his sling. “How’s the little one?”

“Out like a light,” Clint said, reaching down into the sling to stroke one hand down Nate’s tiny nose. He looked up, past Laura to Natasha. “Good day?” he asked.

Natasha gazed ahead to Lila and Cooper, leading the way home, and then back at Laura, then to Clint. “Good day,” she said, and her voice was calm and laced with contentment.

They walked back in comfortable silence, and Laura held Natasha’s hand for the entire walk home.

**1997**

“Nat,” Clint says in her ear, “You’ve got someone on your six.”

“Copy,” Natasha murmurs, carefully not slowing her step as she moves through the embassy ballroom, as comfortable in stilettos as she would have been barefoot.

The comm tech they’re using is new, developed by a contact of Natasha’s in Switzerland. Natasha has a tiny microphone hidden in the jewel on her her choker and a flesh-colored receiver tucked into her ear and covered by her hair. It’s smaller and more easily hidden than what she’s used to, and she likes it. They’ve gone silent on their last few jobs, and Natasha has missed Clint’s voice in her ear, the reassuring knowledge that he’s got eyes on her.

Now, she plucks a champagne flute from a passing waiter’s tray, lifting it to her lips. “Visual?” she asks, covering her words with a sip.

“White male, maybe mid-thirties, dark hair and beard. Not tall, maybe five-eight, five-nine. Scar on his left temple. He’s got a comm receiver in the right ear.”

Natasha holds her glass as if to admire the crystal, and catches sight of the man’s reflection. “Armed?”

“Two,” Clint says, his voice certain and sure. “Shoulder and ankle holsters.”

“Government or private?”

“Can’t tell. Want me to cut him off?”

Natasha lowers her glass, taking a thoughtful sip of champagne and calculating her options. This job is a grift, not a hit; they’re after information, not a body count. Natasha is working honeypot on the main ballroom, working to get close enough to the ambassador to get into his private office, while Clint runs backup from the mezzanine level, monitoring exits and potential threats. “Hold position,” she says into her glass. “I’ll let you know if I need you.”

“Copy,” Clint says, and goes silent just as the dark-haired man reaches Natasha. She takes a breath, turns, and steps forward in time to bump her shoulder into the man’s arm, letting herself totter on her heels.

  
As expected, the man reaches out, catching her by her elbow. “Easy there,” he says, and Natasha categorizes his accent as North London, colored by several years in high society learning to mask its origins. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Natasha says, letting her voice goes light and breathy, a little embarrassed. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you.”

She lays one hand on his arm in apology, and the man’s pupils expand very slightly. “It’s quite alright,” he says. “You’re Claire Butler, aren’t you? The designer?”

Natasha smiles, pleased at the success of her cover in getting her onto the guest list--and, apparently, this man’s dossier. Government security, she thinks, looking over his nondescript suit and tie--well-cut, but not unique. “Yes, I am. Do you know my work?”

He shakes his head. “No, ma’am, but my employer is quite a fan.”

Natasha widens her eyes. “Your employer?”

“Ambassador Graham,” the man says. “He asks if you would like to have a drink with him in his private study.”

“Oh,” Natasha says, letting herself flush slightly. “Yes. Yes, I’d love to.”

The man smiles, showing very white teeth, and offers her his arm. “Right this way, please.”

She takes his arm, smiling up at him through her eyelashes, and hears Clint snort out a laugh. “Laying it on a little thick there, Nat,” he says in her ear.

Natasha doesn’t respond, because she is a damn professional, but she does glance up at the balcony and squint her eyes in the direction she’s pretty sure is Clint’s, and hears him laugh again, fondly.

The man leads her up the grand marble staircase to the mezzanine level, and down the well-lit hallway to a closed door made of polished oak. The man knocks, and then opens the door.

Ambassador Charles Graham is a tall, well-built man, with fine features and graying brown hair. He rises from a leather couch as Natasha enters, a smooth politician’s smile curving his lips. “Miss Butler, I presume?”

Natasha smiles, inclining her head. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ambassador. I was surprised to hear that you’re a fan of my work.”

“I’m a great admirer of the arts,” Graham says, gesturing for her to join him on the leather couch. She steps closer and sweeps her long skirt to one side, exposing her legs through the high slit in the side of the fabric as she crosses them at the ankle. She hears Graham catch his breath. “And your clothing designs are quite impressive.”

“I’m so glad to hear you think so,” she says, lacing her fingers together on her knees. “And I must thank you for the invitation to this beautiful event. The embassy is lovely.”

“I’d love to give you a tour,” Graham says, and his smile reminds Natasha of Little Red Riding Hood’s wolf. “Perhaps a little later?”

“That sounds wonderful,” she says.

“May I get you a drink?”

Natasha smiles. “I’d love one.”

Graham squeezes her hand and gets to his feet, crossing to the liquor cart against the far wall. “I’ve got an excellent scotch,” he says without looking over his shoulder. “A gift from the President, actually.”

“My goodness,” Natasha says, rolling her eyes. She slips her feet out of her stilettos and the hypodermic needle from from where it’s concealed in her bracelet, creeping up behind the ambassador on silent feet, keeping her breathing low and even. With lightning-fast reflexes, she presses the needle into the vein on the back of Graham’s hand and catches the glass he was holding before he can drop it as his fingers spasm, and then catches the ambassador before he can slump to the ground. Carefully, she eases him down to the floor, and then steps away, concealing the empty injector in the holster on her thigh. “Clear,” she says.

The window opens, and Clint pokes his head inside. He scans the room, notes the ambassador on the floor and the glass of scotch in Natasha’s hand, not a drop spilled, and grins. “Smooth,” he says.

Natasha cocks an eyebrow. “Are you surprised?”

“By your excellent job performance? Never.” He climbs through the window, leaving the rig hanging, and Natasha frowns when she realizes he wasn’t harnessed, just holding onto the rope. He catches her eye and shrugs. “Would’ve rumpled my tux,” he says by way of defense.

“So would crashing to your death,” she points out.

The look Clint shoots her is almost offended. “I would _never_ ,” he says. “I don’t _fall_ off things, Nat. I _jump_. There’s a critical difference.”

“Tell that to your broken legs.”

“That was _one time_.” Clint brushes off his tux and looks around the room, sees the desk in the corner. “Think he locks it?”

Natasha eyes the ambassador on the floor. “He brought a fashion designer with a half-assed backstory up to his private study with no security in the room and immediately started drinking. No, I don’t think he locks it.”

“Great.” Clint fairly bounces over to the desk and Natasha follows with a fond smile, shaking her head. As professional and competent as he is, Clint still has something of a puppy-like enthusiasm on jobs, especially when they’re going well. “Alright, we got a computer and a file drawer.”

“You take the drawer, I’ll get into the computer.” Natasha leans over the keyboard, tapping a few keys to bypass the password encryption. Clint reaches into his breast pocket and slides a piece of paper with file names over to her while opening the file drawer at the same time. She runs a search and taps her manicured nails on the desk while the computer gives her an hourglass.

“Got it,” Clint says, pulling out a file folder. He spreads it out on the desk and pulls a camera from another pocket ( _Men and their pockets_ , Natasha thinks), snapping a picture of each page of the file. Fortunately, it’s not thick, and he’s done by the time Natasha has finished copying the files she needs from the computer onto a disk. Clint puts the folder back into the drawer and slides it shut, then takes the disk from Natasha. “Wham bam thank you ma’am,” he says cheerfully, putting both the camera and the disk into a pocket as Natasha shuts the computer down.

“Never say that again,” Natasha says dryly. Clint rolls his eyes at her, using his sleeve to wipe any prints from the keyboard or desk. “You’ve got everything?”

Clint nods, straightening his tux. He eyes the ambassador on the floor as they walk back to the window together. “Should be all set. I’ll meet you at the rendezvous point?”

“Yes.” Natasha reaches up to adjust his bow tie, then rests her hands on his chest. “And remember, if I’m not there by--”

“Natasha.” Clint closes his hands over hers. “You always give me the ‘if I’m not there by an hour after the rendezvous time, leave without me’ spiel, and you know I’m going to ignore it. Why bother giving it?”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Maybe because I hope one day you’ll be a real professional and start following it?”

Clint looks horrified. “Me? A real professional? Gross, Nat.” He grins, though, leaning down to her, and she can’t help but kiss him. Clint’s eternally ridiculous, and Natasha’s pretty sure he’ll never be the crisp, cool professional that she was trained to be, but she likes it that way--his humor and energy make the work fun in a way it never could have been when the world was all darkness and death.

She breaks the kiss before any of her emotions can show on her face, because after all, they’re still on the job. “Go,” she says, giving him a little shove. “I’ll take care of things here.”

“You’re the boss,” Clint says. He drops a kiss to her nose, and then swings himself out the window.

Natasha pokes her head out and watches him scale the rope up and out of sight, and then waits until he pulls the rope up after him before closing the window. She smooths her hair, puts her high heels back on, and makes a final scan of the room, then nods to herself in satisfaction. “Act two begins,” she mutters, and hears Clint’s laugh--not even winded, the bastard.

Crossing back to the bar, Natasha hoists the ambassador up into her arms and then picks up the glass of scotch he’d been holding. She takes a deep breath, and drops first the glass, then the ambassador, and then screams at the top of her lungs.

Immediately, the door flies open, and the security agent from earlier barges into the room, gun in his hands. “What is it?” His eyes fly to Graham, crumpled on the floor. “What happened?”

Natasha pitches her voice high and panicked. “I don’t know!” she whimpers. “He was pouring us a drink, and then he just--he just fell over!”

“Get back against the wall,” the agent commands, bending down over the ambassador. He waits until she obeys, and then holsters his gun and checks the ambassador’s pulse. With quick hands, he pulls something out of an inside pocket of his jacket--a blood sugar meter, Natasha notes--and then pricks the ambassador’s forefinger. “High blood sugar,” he says, sighing. He looks up at Natasha. “He’ll be alright,” he says, his tone much gentler. “The ambassador is diabetic. We’ll get him some insulin and he’ll be okay.”

“Oh.” Natasha puts a hand on her chest. “This isn’t--this isn’t my fault, is it?”

The agent shakes his head. “No, ma’am.” He pulls a radio off his belt. “Code Yellow in the ambassador’s study,” he says into it, and then puts it down. “You should return to the party, ma’am,” he tells Natasha. “I don’t think the ambassador will be up to...visiting with you this evening.”

Natasha feigns hesitance. “Are you sure I can’t help somehow?”

“I don’t think so, ma’am.” The agent is still checking the ambassador’s vitals, and Natasha knows he’s dismissed her.

“Alright. Um, okay. Please let him know that he can--he can call me. If he wants.” Natasha backs slowly out of the room, walking down the hallway, keeping her expression concerned and a little bit shocked. Once she gets down the stairs and back into the main ballroom, though, she picks up her step, managing to slip out through one of the service entrances without being seen.

The cool night air is a welcome reprieve from the loud, bustling ballroom, and Natasha breathes out, letting some of the tension ease from her shoulders. She won’t really relax until the files are handed off and the second half of their payment is in their accounts, but this is a start.

She hails a cab at the corner, slipping in and giving the driver the address in fluent Czech. The cab pulls away and Natasha leans back against the seat, answering the driver’s questions about the party as vaguely as she can while keeping up her cover persona of a sweet, slightly bubbly designer experiencing her first embassy soiree.

The cab lets her out a block from the hotel she and Clint have designated as their rendezvous point, and she goes the rest of the way on foot. She smiles at the doorman, and rides the elevator up to the fourth floor.

Clint is waiting for her in their room when she opens the door, lounging on the bed and reading the room service menu. There’s a gun on the bedside table in easy reach, which tells her that he probably wasn’t entirely ready to relax until she was back, and that makes her smile. “Hey,” he says, tossing the menu aside and sitting up. “Any problems?”

“None,” Natasha says, closing the door behind her. She kicks off her heels and goes to the bed, climbing up and straddling Clint’s hips. “You?”

“Smooth sailing.” Clint’s hands come up to settle on the curve of her ass, comfortably possessive while still giving her plenty of leeway to pull away if she’s not in the mood to be touched.

On this particular night, though, she is. “How long until our flight?”

Clint glances at the clock. “Probably need to head to the airport in six, seven hours.”

Natasha runs her fingers over his undone bowtie. “Were you planning on sleeping?”

Clint grins. “Not a wink,” he says. Natasha smiles, curves her hands around his wrists to move them away from her ass and down against the bed, pinning them there and letting her smile widen when Clint’s pupils go full and dark.

They make their flight, but it’s a close call.

**2015**

Natasha stared at her bedroom ceiling, and couldn’t sleep.

She didn’t know why. The house was cool and quiet, and she had kept the windows open, letting the nighttime breeze ruffle the curtains and bring the sweet country scents into the room. Nate had woken once already and Natasha had tensed at the sound, but it had hushed quickly enough. That had been almost three hours ago, and she still hadn’t been able to drift off.

Normally it was her mind keeping her awake, memories or worries running through her head that pushed adrenaline into her veins and wouldn’t let her relax enough to allow sleep to claim her. But she didn’t feel anxious or worried, and there were no nightmares creeping along the corners of her mind.

She felt, she finally had to acknowledge, lonely.

Growling softly to herself, she rolled over onto her back, running her hands through her hair. “Get it together, Romanoff,” she muttered, but once the thought had come to her, she couldn’t shake it. Last night’s sleep had been restful and calm, and as much as she hated to admit it, she knew it was because of where she’d been sleeping, and who she’d been sleeping with.

Natasha chewed her lower lip, trailing her fingers over the fabric of her comforter to ground herself. Clint and Laura were comfort she her, and she knew that, but at the same time, she’d made the decision to walk away from them. From all of this. She’d done it for her own good, knowing that, deep down, no matter what they’d told her, someday they’d realize that their family was complete without her in it, without a twisted, traumatized assassin who could still be triggered into an unstoppable killer if someone who knew the codes flipped any switches still buried in her mind, and they’d ask her to leave.

She had lived through enough. She couldn’t have lived through that.

If she’d known what was good for her, she knew, she would have made it a clean break--left completely, stayed with SHIELD but demanded a new partner, never come back to the farm. But there had been Cooper, and then Lila, and Natasha knew that she could no more leave the Bartons than she could take out her own heart and leave it behind.

A small, whimpering cry reached her ears, and Natasha sat up. A glance at the clock made her wince, and she rubbed her eyes. “Okay,” she mumbled into her hands, and sighed, squaring her shoulders and swinging her legs over the side of the bed, shivering at the cool touch of the hardwood floors against her bare feet as she padded from the room.

Clint opened the door to the master bedroom when she knocked softly, Nate in his arms. The baby was wearing only a diaper and was fussing in Clint’s arms, and Clint rocked him gently. “Hey,” he said, voice low. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, and Clint stepped back to let her into the room, closing the door behind her and then crossing back to the bed to hand Nate to Laura, who gave Natasha a sleepy wave as she settled Nate against her breast to feed him. Clint straightened up, cracking his back, and turned back to Natasha. “What’s up?”

A dozen potential responses went through her head-- _I just wanted to check that the baby was okay, I didn’t know if you needed any help, I was going downstairs for a drink, does Laura need anything?_ Instead, what came out of her mouth was, “I couldn’t sleep.”

Surprise flickered across Clint’s features, followed closely by concern and then quickly covered with a teasing grin. “Want me to tuck you in? Read you a story?”

“Clint,” Laura said, her tone gently chiding, and Natasha looked past Clint to her. She was sitting up in bed, the blankets kicked down around her feet, wearing only her underwear and a nursing tank, unclasped on one side to let Nate nurse. She looked up at Natasha, her expression gentle. “Tasha, is there anything we can do to help?”

Natasha hesitated. In so many ways, this was what she had wanted to avoid, had been trying to avoid for years. A night in Clint and Laura’s bed once in a blue moon was one thing, but more than one night in a row made her nervous, made her worry that she might fall into their arms and not be able to leave them again.

But she was _tired_ , and she couldn’t spend another day playing with the kids without sleeping. “Could I…” She swallowed, clenching her fists. “Could I stay with you tonight?”

Clint’s expression softened. “Nat,” he said, and then seemed to stop himself, and start again. “‘Course you can,” he said, and then pointed a finger at her. “Only don’t kick like you did last night, or you’re on the floor.”

She relaxed, grateful for Clint’s humor, even if she knew it was covering up something deep and longing. “You’re one to talk, Barton,” she shot back, climbing into bed as if it were the easiest thing in the world. She stretched out next to Laura, close enough to gently run her fingers over Nate’s tiny knuckles. Nate reached out and curled his hand around her pointer finger, and she smiled.

“He knows who he’s named for,” Laura said, a smile audible in her voice.

“Smart kid,” Natasha said, marveling at Nate’s tiny fingernails.

“He gets that from your side of the family,” Clint said. Natasha didn’t miss that he didn’t specify which _your_ he was referring to.

Laura reached down with the hand that wasn’t curled around Nate, brushing her fingers through Natasha’s hair. “I’m sorry you’re not sleeping well,” she said quietly. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

Natasha closed her eyes and shook her head. “It’s not that,” she said. “I...I don’t know.”

The bed behind her dipped and she felt Clint’s hand rest on the curve of her waist. “You know we’re here for you, right? No matter what.”

Natasha reached back to close her hand over his. “I know.”

They sat together without speaking while Nate ate, the only sounds the soft whisper of the wind and Nate’s occasional gurgle. Natasha listened to Clint and Laura’s breathing and her own heartbeat, feeling a sense of calm finally settle over her.

The moment was broken when Laura had to pull Nate off her nipple to burp him and hand him back to Clint, who climbed off the bed and brought Nate back to the changing pad on the dresser, maneuvering the sleepy baby into pajamas. Natasha propped herself up on her elbows to watch as Clint scooped Nate up again and returned him to his crib in the corner. He stayed for a few moments, one arm reached into the crib until Nate settled, and then came back to bed.

Instinctively, Natasha started to move to one side to make room for him, but Clint shook his head. “You stay,” he said, getting into bed on her other side so that she was lying between him and Laura. They’d done this before, shuffling who was in the middle based on who needed it most, and Natasha lay her head back down on the pillow, letting her body relax into the familiar mattress.

She felt the edge of the pillow lift slightly as Clint slipped his arm under her it, and then his other arm draped over her waist, his body fitting to curve around her back. Laura rolled over onto her side so that she was facing Natasha, tucking a few loose strands of hair that had come out of her ponytail behind her ear and giving Natasha a tired smile. “Think you’ll be able to sleep?”

Natasha extended one hand and Laura slipped hers into it, lacing their fingers together. “I don’t know,” she said, closing her eyes. “I think someone mentioned a bedtime story?”

Clint laughed against her neck, his breath warm and gentle. “Sure,” he said. His thumb began to move in slow, soothing circles over her hip bone. “Y’want funny or dramatic?”

“You pick,” Natasha said, already starting to feel the day’s exhaustion creeping up on her, weighing her eyelids down even more.

“Tell us a love story, Clint,” Laura murmured, shifting a bit closer on the bed. Her toes brushed against Natasha’s, and Natasha instinctively hooked one ankle around hers.

“A love story, huh?” Clint sounded sleepy, but Natasha could hear him smiling. “You got it, babes.” Natasha felt his lips brush against her bare shoulder, pressing a kiss against the place where there had once been a scar. “Once upon a time,” he said, “There was a dumb ex-carnie, a gorgeous Russian spy, and an amazing girl who had her shit together enough to hold them all together…”

Natasha smiled, relaxing against the warm solidity of Clint’s chest. That was her Clint, she thought, always the romantic.

She had enough consciousness left to realize that it had been a long time since she’d called him _hers_ , even in her head, without scolding herself for it, and then the combination of Clint’s voice and the sweet, peaceful feeling of being surrounded by strong arms and gentle hands took her down into sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Canon-typical violence and espionage. No trigger warnings for this chapter.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who commented or left kudos on chapter one! You all put huge smiles on my face. :) Thank you for your patience in waiting for this chapter to go up! As mentioned last time, I'm posting as I get things written, so expect one to two weeks between chapters. I always love feedback, positive or constructive, so if you are feeling generous, please leave a comment with your thoughts! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**2015**

Sunday was Laura’s day to sleep in, and as far as Clint was concerned, she more than earned it. She woke long enough to feed Nate and then promptly went back to sleep, twining herself around a sleepily obliging Natasha. Clint got Nate dressed in a light summer onesie with a bow and arrow on the chest--a gift from Laura’s youngest brother, who thought he was hilarious, and who incidentally was also Clint’s favorite--and scooped him comfortably up in one arm. He got himself dressed one-handed in loose scrub pants leftover from a stay in SHIELD Medical and a t-shirt with a logo that had long since faded into illegibility, all the while keeping an easy grip on Nate. The baby sling was more of Laura’s thing, and while Clint could see the appeal and used it now and again, he preferred the physicality of actually holding the kids when they were babies, since he tended to not get much time to do so.

To be fair, Clint had also broken enough bones in his hands and arms that he was pretty much ambidextrous and could manage just about anything one-handed. Laura, thank God, hadn’t.

With Nate drooling happily against his shoulder, Clint left the bedroom and headed down the hall. Amazingly, Cooper and Lila’s doors were still closed. According to Clint’s internal clock it was just after six in the morning, and it was hit or miss on weekends whether the kids would be out cold or running around on a sugar high. Clint tended to prefer the former--it was rare for him to get a quiet morning at home, and he clung to them when they happened. He crept past the kids’ rooms and down the stairs, silently congratulating himself on remembering to fix the creaky step the last time he’d been home, and then made a beeline for the kitchen.

He made coffee while humming quietly to Nate, moving in the vague sway-bounce that had come strangely naturally to him with all of his kids. Nate fixed a hand in the collar of Clint’s t-shirt, gurgling contentedly, and Clint smiled, turning his head to kiss Nate’s temple and inhaling the baby-sweet smell.

He loved his job, but these were the moments he lived for.

The coffee machine beeped and Clint poured himself a large mug, carrying it and the baby into the den that he and Laura shared as an office. It was pretty cramped for both of them--though Laura used it more than Clint--and he thought about the dining room renovation plans in the playroom, trying to figure out when he was going to have time to get to it. It would definitely have to wait a few more weeks, he thought, settling down at his desk and putting the coffee down, flipping his laptop open.

It had been a few days since he’d checked his email, and Clint winced when the icon displaying the number of unread messages popped up on his desktop. He relaxed a moment later once he realized that the majority of the emails were a chain of messages between Tony Stark and Sam Wilson that seemed to consist almost entirely of increasingly ridiculous gifs of birds, robots, or some combination of the two. The rest of the team was CC’ed as well, including, Clint noticed, Bruce. He tapped his fingers thoughtfully against his coffee mug, wondering--not for the first time--where Bruce had wound up.

Fuck the guy for leaving Nat feeling as lost as she did now, but he was still part of Clint’s team, and that still mattered.

He was in the middle of watching a loop of a _Doctor Who_ Cyberman chasing a pigeon when his screen lit up with an incoming video call. Clint glanced at the name on the call and grinned, clicking the answer icon. “Hey there, Cap.”

Steve grinned back from inside the video window, saluting Clint with a water bottle. He was wearing an UnderArmor shirt, and a very slight sheen of sweat glistened at his temples, the only indication that he may have just finished a morning run. “Hey, Clint. Long time no see.”

“Back at you,” Clint said, sipping his coffee. “How’s the team?”

“The team’s great,” Steve said. There was a rustling on his end and the camera angle moved, as if Steve had gone from standing to sitting. “Lots of training and cohesion work. Team building stuff, you know?”

Clint cocked an eyebrow. “Trust falls?”

“Off the roof,” Steve said, eyes twinkling mischievously. His gaze moved, focusing on Clint’s shoulder, and his face lit up. “Is that Nathaniel?”

“Sure is.” Clint put his coffee down and turned Nate around to face the computer, propping him up and bracing him to support his head and neck. Nate gurgled happily at the screen, and Steve’s expression turned to mush. “Natasha junior, more affectionately known as Nate.”

Steve looked at Nate like he was made of something magical. “Wow,” he said, his tone awed. “Clint, he’s amazing.”

Clint grinned proudly. “Thanks,” he said, dropping a kiss to the top of Nate’s head. “Laura did most of the hard work. Still does.”

“I’ll bet,” Steve said, still staring at Nate. “Wow,” he said again, shaking his head. “Just--wow.”

Nate blew a spit bubble, and Clint laughed. “Don’t spend a lot of time with babies, do you, Cap?”

Steve grinned unselfconsciously. “You’re the only one I know who’s got one,” he said. “Does he do much?”

Clint bounced Nate lightly on his knee. “Not too much. Eats, sleeps, cries. Looks damn cute doing it, though.”

Nate started to fuss at the lack of physical contact, and Clint picked him up, resettling him against his shoulder, rubbing Nate’s back with his free hand. He shushed him softly, turning his head to kiss Nate’s downy hair, and Nate quieted against him, curling one tiny fist into the collar of Clint’s t-shirt. Clint dragged his attention back to Steve. “Been in touch with Stark at all?”

 

“Here and there.” Steve took another swig from his water bottle. “He’s still consulting on a bunch of stuff—weapons, uniforms, you know. Every now and then he comes in and runs drills, comes up with training simulations.”

 

Clint cocked an eyebrow. “Think he’s bored?”

 

“I’m sure of it. With Pepper running the company, he’s got too much time on his hands.”

 

“Tell him to start another foundation,” Clint suggested.

 

“Believe me, I’ve tried.” Steve leaned down against the counter, bringing his face closer to the screen. “So,” he said, and Clint got the impression that whatever he was about to say was probably the reason he’d called. “How’s Nat?”

 

Clint bounced Nate gently, rubbing his back. “She’s…okay,” he said slowly, rubbing slow circles over Nate’s back with his thumb. “Should have known you knew she was here.”

 

Steve cracked an apologetic grin. “I kind of guessed,” he said. “She wanted somewhere safe.”

 

“Yeah, well.” Clint shrugged. “I try to be.”

 

“You do a good job,” Steve said, and it was his Captain America voice more than his Steve voice, but Clint got what he was going for. Steve looked down, rubbing his hands together. “Hey,” he said, quieter now. “Nat and Banner. Do you know if they ever really…”

 

“No,” Clint said, too quickly. As much as he was willing to tell Natasha that he was fine with whatever went down between her and Bruce, he’d been secretly relieved when Nat had told him that there had only been one kiss. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and started again. “No,” he said. “There was a kiss. That was it.”

 

“Oh.” Steve looked hesitant. “I just kind of thought…She seemed really broken up, when he left. It kind of made me think they were more…involved.”

 

Clint rested his head against Nate’s, giving himself some time to think. “Nat doesn’t open up easily,” he said. “You know that. She put herself out there with Banner, told him things that--that she doesn’t let most people know.” He stroked one finger over the crown of Nate’s head, just to give himself something to do. “He went off the grid after Sokovia, and Nat...she blames herself for it, like she’s the one who made the call to break up the team.”

Steve frowned. “No one made that call.”

“And Banner fucked off because he has his own issues, not because of anything Nat did, but you try getting that into her head.” Nate squirmed slightly at the sudden gruffness in Clint’s tone, and Clint hushed him, shifting him around to cradle him in the crook of one arm, running the fingers of his spare hand through his hair. “Look,” he said, wearily. “If she hasn’t told you exactly what went down between them in Sokovia, it’s not my place to do it. But her being upset...it’s more about her and her own issues than it is about Bruce.”

Steve nodded slowly. His expression was thoughtful and calculating, the way it looked on a battlefield, and Clint managed to suppress a smirk at that. “You know,” Steve said finally, “Before all of this went down, I really thought--”

He broke off, snapping his mouth shut. Clint cocked an eyebrow. “What?”

A wry smile quirked the corner of Steve’s mouth. “I thought you and Nat had something going, honestly.”

Clint didn’t quite grin back, but it was a close thing. “Yeah, well. We go back a long time.”

It wasn’t much of an answer, and the look on Steve’s face clearly showed he knew it. “Longer than you and Laura?”

This time, Clint raised both eyebrows. “What makes you ask that?”

Steve held his gaze, his eyes steady. “Just trying to get my timelines sorted out.”

Clint took a slow sip of his coffee, giving himself time to think. Of the Avengers other than himself, he knew Natasha was closest to Steve--close enough to let him see the side of her that texted with emoticons, watched awful movies, and loved puns more than any other type of humor. But beyond that...well. Nat’s SHIELD file had her birth date in 1984, and Clint himself had destroyed any SHIELD-recorded links between Natasha’s name and the Black Widow title prior to 2000. If Steve only had access to SHIELD’s records, he wouldn’t know most of Natasha’s history, and Clint wasn’t about to spill it without her permission.

“Nat and I are complicated,” he said finally, choosing his words carefully. “I won’t lie to you and tell you we’ve never been more than friends, Cap. That much of it is my history as much as it’s hers, and I’ve got enough right to be clean about it. But Laura’s my wife, and I’ve never betrayed her trust or our vows.” He took another sip of his coffee. “Does that answer your question?”

“Not in the slightest,” Steve said, but he didn’t look angry. “In fact, I think you dodged it pretty well.”

“Yeah, well.” Now Clint did grin. “I was in the spy game for awhile.”

Steve leaned on his elbows, bringing his face closer to the screen. “Just answer me this much,” he said. “Are you taking care of her?”

“I don’t take care of Nat, Cap. She takes care of me.” Still, he gave Steve a relaxed smile. “This is a good place for her. She loves Laura and the kids, and they love her. She can be herself here, get herself rested.” He put his coffee mug down so he could slip one finger into Nate’s tiny fist. “She’ll come back when she’s ready, and not a minute before.”

“Sounds like her,” Steve said, smiling lightly. “You know, Barton, you’re a tough guy to read.”

“That’s just my resting face,” Clint said. “Not my fault.” He heard the beginnings of activity from above him, and managed to suppress a wince. “I’d better go, Cap. I think I can hear the kids, and if they see you you’ll never get back to whatever your day was going to look like.”

Steve chuckled. “I’ll let you go, then.” He straightened up. “Hey. Clint?” Clint paused with his hand outstretched toward the ‘end call’ icon. “Thanks.”

Clint knew better than to ask what for. “What I’m here for, Cap,” he said, and ended the call. The video window went dark and then vanished, and Clint sighed, leaning back in his chair and looking down at Nate. “That’s your Uncle Steve,” he told the baby. “And apparently, he’s taking lessons in nosiness from your Uncle Tony.”

“You’d be surprised,” Natasha said dryly.

Long years of experience with Natasha’s tendency to sneak allowed Clint to turn and face her without jumping out of his skin or dropping his baby. She was leaning against the doorframe, wearing one of Clint’s flannel shirts, unbuttoned over her blue tank top and black leggings. Her hair was tousled from sleep, and she smiled gently at him, lifting the cup of coffee in her hand in a friendly greeting. “Having a nice chat?”

“Nice enough.” Clint closed his laptop and pushed it back on his desk, and Natasha came over to perch in the newly opened space. She rested her bare feet on his knees, cupping her mug in her hands. She looked sleepy, as if she’d just woken, but still well-rested, no sign of dark circles under her eyes. “Sleep well?”

“Mm.” Natasha sipped her coffee, looking down at Nate with a soft, fond smile on her lips. “Especially since this one was nice enough not to wake so much.”

“You caught him on a good night,” Clint said, and clinked his mug against hers. “Maybe he likes having the lady he’s named for in arm’s reach.”

Natasha looked amused. “Maybe he does,” she said, reaching down to run one finger over Nate’s knuckles. “You didn’t tell Steve much,” she said.

Clint looked up at her. Her gaze was fixed resolutely on Nate. “It’s not all mine to tell,” he said.

  
“Enough of it is.”

Clint shook his head. “Not the same thing, Nat.”

Natasha’s expression softened, and she put her mug down on the desk, reaching out and laying her hand against his cheek. “You’re a good man, Clint Barton,” she said.

He turned his head to kiss her palm. “Got a lot to try and be good for,” he said against her skin, and Natasha smiled.

They sat together in comfortable silence and waited for the house to wake.

**1997**

Laura glances down at the address scrawled on the piece of notebook paper in her hand, and then up at the building she’s hesitating in front of. The number’s right, but none of the names or initials on any of the buzzers match Clint’s, and she doesn’t want to ring the wrong one and she’d smudged the pencil where she’d scribbled down his apartment number.

Her adjustment to New York, Laura thinks, is not going well.

Thunder crashes above her and the sky opens up, and she yelps as she’s instantly soaked. “ _Fuck_ ,” she says miserably as the rest of the pencil lead turns illegible. What is she supposed to do now?

“Laura?”

The confused shout comes from somewhere above her, and Laura cranes her head to look up, squinting through the rain. “Clint?”

She can only barely make him out, his head sticking out a window, and she can’t read his expression at all. “Jesus,” he says. “Hold on, I’ll be right down for you.”

His head disappears, and Laura finds herself standing out in the rain again. “Okay,” she says, spitting rainwater out her mouth.

Less than a minute later, the door opens, and Laura finds herself being pulled into Clint’s blessedly warm arms. “Hi,” she says against his chest, her voice muffled in his t-shirt.

“Hey,” he says. He draws back enough to kiss her, and then guides her inside and out of the rain. “Why didn’t you buzz me?”

“I couldn’t remember your apartment number,” Laura says as the door shut behind her. She hugs him properly now, and he hugs her back just as tightly, apparently heedless of the rainwater soaking her clothes and hair. “I’m sorry, I know I should have called first, I just--”

“No, babe, you don’t need to call before you come over, Jesus.” Clint steps back, looking her over, his eyes concerned. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She gives him a sheepish smile. “My roommate had a guy over and it got...kind of loud in the apartment, and I just needed to get out of there for a bit. You were the first person I thought of, and…” She runs her hands through her wet hair. “I’m sorry. I know you probably only gave me your address for emergencies--”

“Laura, no. It’s totally fine.” He smooths her hair back. “I’m just almost never here, and the area’s really sketchy. That’s why I usually come to yours. But you’re here now, and you’re soaked, and if I’m around no one’s going to fuck with you.” Clint gives her a wry grin, then wraps an arm around her. “Come on, let’s get you upstairs.”

Laura’s apartment in Astoria is on the fifth floor of a walk-up, but Clint’s stairs are still a challenge for her, and she’s more than a bit breathless by the time they reach his floor. He keeps pace with her, his arm gentle around her waist, and she realizes with a start as he slips his keys out of his pocket that this will be the first time she’s spent time in a space that is his, not hers or someplace neutral, like a hotel. The thought makes her heart beat faster, even more than the stairs had.

She must hesitate, because Clint glances at her as he unlocks his door. “Laura? You okay?”

Laura opens her mouth to say she’s just out of breath, but then throws caution to the wind and goes for the truth instead. “I’ve never been to your apartment before.”

Clint blinks. “No way,” he says, and looks genuinely surprised. “Really?”

“Really,” Laura says, and can’t help but be a bit amused at how confused he looks. “Did you think I had?”

He scratches the back of his head. “I guess I must’ve convinced myself you had,” he admits, looking almost sheepish. “It’s been long enough, I just figured...huh. Okay, then.” He grins, apologetically. “If I’d realized that, I would’ve cleaned.”

“I like the organic experience,” Laura teased, and then, looking down at her clothes, added, “Actually, as long as it’s dry, I don’t think I’ll be picky at all.”

Clint laughs. “Good to know,” he says. He finishes unlocking the door and pushes it open, then extends an arm. “After you, ma’am.”

Laura shakes her head in amusement, smiling at the ridiculousness of her boyfriend, and slips past him into the apartment.

The first thing she noticed was the strange layout. The door opened into a small entryway next to the kitchen, not huge, but what Laura was quickly realizing was decent sized for a New York apartment. She could see the back of a staircase on the other side of the entryway leading up to what seemed to be a loft space. In front of her, the room opened up into a living space, sparsely furnished with a couch, coffee table, bookshelves, and a television. At the far end of the room were a pair of targets, vaguely person-shaped, and that made her raise her eyebrows at Clint, who shrugged obligingly. “Gotta keep in working condition,” he says, by way of explanation.

“Ah.” Laura looks around, taking in the space. The colors are muted and masculine, shades of blues and greys and--only slightly surprisingly--purples. All of the furniture looks comfortable and utilitarian, vaguely mis-matched but somehow perfectly suited to the space.

It is, she realizes, a perfectly _Clint-shaped_ sort of space. She looks up at Clint, who’s watching her with something like nervousness on his face. “Sorry about the clutter,” he says.

Laura shakes her head. “It’s perfect,” she says, and stands on tiptoe to kiss him. “It suits you.”

Clint’s hands, large and warm, settle on her hips. “Yeah?”

“Mm.”

He smiles against her mouth. “Upstairs might suit you better,” he says. “It’s where the towels live.”

Laura pulls back, raising her eyebrows. “Just the towels?”

“Well.” Clint’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “And some other stuff.”

Laura laughs, holding out her arms. “You may escort me to your castle, O Knight.”

Clint grins and scoops her up as if she weighs nothing, carrying her up the stairs. The loft space holds a bedroom set and a door that Laura suspects leads to the bathroom. Clint sets her down on the--very comfortable--bed. “So,” he says. “Towel?”

She runs her fingertips over the duvet cover. She’d prefer to pull him down onto the bed with her, but she’s still cold and damp enough that she’d rather have a shower before they get into any funny business. “How about a shower?”

“I could get in on that.” He leans down and kisses her. “You get started. I’m going to head back downstairs and re-lock everything.” Clint tugs a lock of her hair, and then smiles. “You look good on my bed.”

Laura returns his grin. “Shoo,” she says, and he laughs, heading back down the stairs. She watches him go, enjoying the play of his muscles visible under his thin white t-shirt and jeans, and then climbs up to her feet, going for the door in the corner.

The bathroom is small but well-outfitted, with a shower-tub combination, a stacked washer and dryer, a toilet, and sink. There’s an actual hand towel next to the sink, which shocks her--she’s never seen a man’s apartment that had an actual hand towel. Shaking her head in vague awe, she strips down and folds her wet clothes, putting them in the empty washing machine, then turns on the shower.

The water runs warm and then hot, and Laura steps under the spray with a soft sigh of relief, closing her eyes as the hot water soothes away the chill that the rain had left on her skin. She hums softly, running her hands through her wet hair, and then peers around the shower in search of something resembling shampoo. She finds a combination shampoo-body wash in a scent she immediately recognizes as Clint’s, and inhales it with a smile.

Another jumble of bottles catches her eye and Laura hesitates, putting down the bottle of Clint’s shampoo and reaching for one of the bottles on the other shelf. It’s clearly a high-end product, with a label she doesn’t quite recognize, and she peers at it curiously, flipping open the cap to smell it. The scent is flowery but not cloying, something subtle--jasmine, maybe, mixed with something like heather. The description on the back recommends the product for _gorgeous, naturally sleek curls_ , and Laura realizes with a jolt that she’s probably smelling the shampoo that belongs to Clint’s other lover.

So Natasha has curly hair, Laura thinks. She adds it to the fairly short list of things she knows about the other woman.

It seems strange, sometimes, that she hasn’t gone snooping for more information about her. It’s not that she isn’t curious--sometimes it feels like she’s dying of curiosity, tinged green at the edges with a jealousy she can’t quite squash--but that she’s almost worried about what she might find. And that’s confusing in and of itself--what could she possibly find out that’s worse than knowing another woman is sleeping with her boyfriend?

Oh, shut up, Laura, she tells herself. You knew what you were getting yourself into.

There’s a tap at the shower curtain, and Laura pokes her head out. “Hello.”

Clint waves at her. “Hi,” he says. “I was going to order dinner. There’s a good Thai place about a block away. Pad thai sound good for you?”

“It sounds great,” Laura says, “But wait on ordering it. I’m lonely.”

Clint blinks, and then grins. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” he says, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt.

Laura laughs, ducking back into the shower. A moment later, the curtain rustles and Clint’s hands settle on her hips. She opens her eyes, blinking away the warm water, and smiles up at him. “Hello, handsome.”

“Hey, beautiful.” He ducks his head down and kisses her, and Laura twines her arms around his neck and presses her body close to his. His fingers skim along the skin of her back and a pleasant shiver runs through her. Clint smiles against her mouth and pulls back. “Feeling warmer?”

“Much,” she says. She runs her eyes over his body, half in appreciation, and half to check for any new scars or injuries that weren’t there when she last saw him two weeks ago. She doesn’t find anything, and smiles up at him. “No new hurts this week?”

“I was the picture of workplace safety,” he says, reaching past her to pick up the same bottle of shampoo she’d put down, squeezing a dollop into his hand and motioning for her to turn.

She hesitates. “Isn’t that Natasha’s?”

Clint blinks, looking down at the bottle. “Oh. Yeah, it is.” He puts the bottle back on the shelf, looking uncertain. “Sorry, I just figured you’d like it better than man-scent.”

Laura can’t help a snort of laughter at that. “I probably will, it’s just…Won’t she mind?”

Clint shakes his head. “Nat is entirely devoted to hair care,” he says. “And gives me shit all the time for not buying whatever the ‘good stuff’ is for myself. She’d probably put a stamp of approval on sharing and then yell at me for not keeping your shampoo here, too.”

“Oh.” That’s surprising enough that Laura lets him turn her around so that he can lather the shampoo into her hair, and for a few moments, she just luxuriates under the touch. Clint’s fingers tend to turn a shower into a massage, and she’s not about to break him of the habit.

He rinses the shampoo out for her and starts replacing it with conditioner. “You don’t ask about her much,” he says.

The words sound hesitant, like he’s not quite sure he wants to say them. “No,” Laura says. “I mean. It would be weird, wouldn’t it? She doesn’t ask about me, does she?”

“Sometimes she does.” Clint combs the conditioner through her hair with his fingers, gets it into her roots and down to the ends. “Not in a weird way or anything. Just...I think she wants to know about you.”

Laura contemplates that. “What kinds of things?”

She can’t see him shrug, but she feels his hands shift with the motion. “What kinds of things you like. How your classes are going. If you’re adjusting to New York okay.” He pauses. “Actually, she wanted me to find a smooth way to ask you if you had pepper spray. For, and I quote, ‘the scumbag rapists.’”

“Um. No, I don’t.”

Clint makes a sound that borders on disapproving. “Really? The men in this city are pigs, Laur.” She cranes her head to look at him, and he amends, “Myself excluded. At least I like to think so.” Laura snickers and tilts her head forward again, letting Clint resume his work. “Anyway, she said if you don’t have any, she’ll get you the good stuff. I guess it comes in something you can clip to your keys so you can carry it. There was kind of a rant.”

Laura tries to process that. “Why would she want to do that?”

“No clue, baby girl. I stopped trying to figure that woman out years ago.” He falls quiet for a moment, turning her gently by her shoulders so that he can start rinsing the conditioner, and then says, “She’s a protective person. Of me, mostly, since I get into a lot of trouble, but she gets protective of the people and things that are important to me, too. I found out a few years ago that she’d been keeping tabs on my screw-up of a brother. I definitely didn’t see that coming.” He smooths his hand over her forehead to keep conditioner-tinged water from flowing into Laura’s closed eyes. “I think she might see you in the same way. I care about you, so she wants you to be safe and looked-after. And she probably doesn’t trust me to keep you that way myself.”

“Oh.” Laura takes her chances and opens her eyes, looks up at Clint. His expression is thoughtful and a little uncertain, almost worried that he’s said too much, and Laura can imagine why. This is the most information he’s ever given her about Natasha, and while all of it’s surprising, Laura can’t help feeling some of her underlying dislike for the other woman fade away, replaced by something that’s a bit closer to admiration. “Well, she’s right about not trusting you, I guess. Look at what you do to yourself every time you get the chance.”

Clint looks offended. “Hey,” he says. “In my defense, half the stuff that shoots at me was shooting at Nat first.”

Laura raises her eyebrows. “Really?” The amount of information that she has about Natasha could fill a tablespoon, but even so, _that_ doesn’t add up.

Sure enough, Clint’s shoulders slump. “No, not really,” he admits. “But only because she’s sneaky as hell and I end up carrying half my weight in gear around, which makes stealth a lot harder.” He curls a lock of her hair around one finger. “So...We okay?”

“We’re okay.” Laura tiptoes up, careful of the wet shower floor, and kisses him. “Would it be okay if I asked about her sometimes, too?”

Clint looks a bit taken aback, but he nods. “Sure,” he says. “Seems only fair.”

Laura smiles. “I think so,” she says, and for the first time, finds herself thinking of Natasha as something of a teammate, rather than a rival. Team Keep Clint Barton Alive and Kicking, she thinks, and can’t suppress a chuckle.

“What?” Clint asks, looking a bit suspicious.

“Nothing,” she says, kissing him again. “So,” she says when they part, both a little bit breathless. “What was that about dinner?”

**2015**

The morning passed in quiet comfort. Clint stubbornly refused to share Nate--which Natasha supposed was fair enough, she and Laura had hogged him for most of yesterday--and so Natasha found herself spending most of her time with Cooper and Lila. The kids were content to read and color on the living room floor for an hour or two, but started asking for “real breakfast” after that. Natasha stalled them for another half hour while she finished the book she’d snagged from Laura’s desk--a surprisingly interesting one about using art therapy with children and adolescents of different ages--before hauling herself off the couch.

“Okay, monkeys, let’s go,” she said, corralling them into the kitchen. “Did Mom move things, or is everything where I remember it?”

“It’s all the same places,” Cooper said, hopping up onto the breakfast bar. Natasha swatted at his knees, and he jumped back down. “Mom does that so you always know where things are.”

Natasha glanced at him over her shoulder from where she was pulling down a large mixing bowl. “She said that?”

“She doesn’t have to say it,” Cooper said. “We can just tell stuff.”

“We’re very smart,” Lila agreed, scaling a kitchen chair and then her brother’s shoulder to get up and sit on the counter. Natasha made a face at her, but Lila blinked innocently at her. “If I stand on the floor, I can’t reach to help.”

“That’s why God invented step stools,” Natasha said, but let her stay. She was Clint’s kid, after all; if she fell off something, she’d bounce right back up. She gestured Cooper towards the eggs on the counter that the kids had collected from the chickens that morning. “Two in a bowl, please.”

Cooper picked up two eggs and cracked them expertly into the smaller bowl Natasha handed him. “Are you and Dad gonna fight later?”

“Dad and I spar, Coop,” Natasha said. “We don’t fight. Often. It’s messy when we fight.” Natasha pulled the card labelled BLUEBERRY PANCAKES from Laura’s recipe box, handing it to Lila. “Can you assemble?”

Lila nodded, hopping off the counter and landing lightly on her feet. “How come you spar when you visit?” She asked, tiptoeing to reach the large jar of flour that lived on the other side of the countertop.

Natasha took the jar from her, setting it down next to the bowl. “Just to stay in practice,” she said.

Lila came back with the sugar jar. “So you remember how to fight the bad guys?”

“Exactly.”

Cooper came back with his mixing bowl full of eggs. “Who’s harder to fight? Dad or bad guys?”

“Depends on the situation.” Natasha measured out flour and sugar. “Your dad and I are used to each other, but that means we work harder to surprise each other. On the other hand, we’re not actually trying to hurt each other.” She added salt and baking powder and handed the mixing bowl to Lila, who had gotten back up onto the counter with a large spoon without Natasha noticing, and took the bowl from Cooper to start whisking the eggs. “Sparring your dad takes more thought.”

It was true, though not in the strictest sense. For most of their years together, sparring had practically been foreplay between them, and it had become instinctive and easy, more of a dance than a fight. These days, Natasha _did_ have to think more when they fought--thinking about her next move was the best way to avoid thinking about the movements of Clint’s muscles under the loose clothes he wore to spar, about the fiery gleam in his eyes or the glisten of sweat on his skin--

“Auntie Nat?” Lila sounded worried. “You’re going to make the eggs too frothy.”

Natasha blinked, looking down. She had whisked the eggs into a near frenzy. She took a deep breath and relaxed, loosening her grip on the whisk. “Sorry, love,” she said. “I got lost in my head.”

Lila swung her feet back and forth. “I do that sometimes,” she said, still mixing the dry ingredients together. “Especially when I’m sad. Or worried.”

“Or mad,” Cooper chimed in. “Or too excited about something.”

Lila frowned briefly at her brother, and then looked up at Natasha. “ _Any_ way, I just meant it’s okay to have lots of thoughts, unless they’re making you feel bad.”

Natasha raised her eyebrows, measuring milk into the bowl of eggs. “What if they are making you feel bad?”

“Then you do mindful breathing,” Lila said. She put the mixing bowl aside and straightened her back, stilling the movements of her legs. “Like this,” she said, closing her eyes and placing both hands on her belly. She took three long, slow breaths, her belly rising with each inhale and falling with each exhale. After her third deep exhale, she opened her eyes and smiled brightly at Natasha. “It makes you feel better.”

“I see.” It looked remarkably close to the meditative breathing she’d caught Bruce at a time or two. She glanced at Cooper. “You do it, too?”

Cooper nodded, rinsing blueberries at the sink. “Mom taught us. After New York.”

“We were scared a lot,” Lila said, pushing her hair back. She looked suddenly sober, almost sad. “Daddy was, too.”

Natasha nodded, reaching out to curl her hand over Lila’s cheek gently. Lila nestled into the touch, closing her eyes. Natasha remembered what Clint had been like after Manhattan. She’d spent two weeks with him before he’d been willing to even consider going home, and even then he’d been a shaking mess of guilt and trauma. Clint had been terrified of hurting Laura or the kids, Natasha had still been half-convinced she’d have to put a bullet in him, and the kids had been scared and clinging and confused, unable to understand why their strong, unflappable father was suddenly so different.

But there had been Laura, calm and steady as a rock, healing and strong. She’d been as scared as any of them, Natasha knew, but she put her family first in a way that the rest of them couldn’t.

If Natasha had had any doubts that she had still loved Laura then, the aftermath of New York had more than dispelled them.

“Maybe I’ll have to have her teach me,” she said carefully, taking her hand from Laura’s cheek and taking the mixing bowl from Lila, combining its contents with her own.

“You should,” Cooper said, passing her the blueberries. “She’s the best teacher.”

Natasha smiled. “That’s true.”

Clint came in from the office, Nate dozing on his shoulder. “How’s it going in here?”

“Good,” Lila said, holding out her arms. Clint shifted his grip on Nate and lifted Lila easily with one hand, settling her on his hip and kissing her temple. “We were teaching Auntie Nat mindful breathing and she’s making us pancakes.”

“Blueberry pancakes,” Cooper added.

“Blueberry, huh?” Clint set Lila back down on the counter. “You’ll have to save some for Mom when she wakes up.”

Natasha nodded towards the baby. “How’s he doing?”

“Out cold,” Clint said. He rubbed Nate’s back gently with one hand, his expression soft and tender. “He’ll probably wake up and want his mama soon, but for now he seems okay with boring old dad.”

“Boring milkless dad,” Lila giggled. Clint stuck his tongue out at her. “Daddy, will you do my hair in French braids today?”

“After breakfast,” Clint said, shooting Natasha a long-suffering look. He’d learned braiding--along with just about every other child care skill he knew--in foster care, taking care of younger kids, and Natasha couldn’t help but be endlessly amused that he’d married a woman who couldn’t braid to save her life. “Assuming you’re not too sticky and need a bath first.”

Lila smiled brightly. “I like baths,” she declared. “You can braid my hair after I have a bath.”

Clint snorted. “That was easy.”

Natasha shook her head in amusement, ladling pancake batter onto a griddle. “Coop, can you get plates?”

Cooper nodded, heading for the cabinets. Lila chirped, “I’ll get milk!” and jumped off the counter.

 

Natasha smiled, watching them as they weaved around each other, Cooper putting down his stack of plates to help Lila pour milk into glasses and then carry the glasses one at a time to the kitchen table. Cooper had Laura’s ability to be quietly helpful while still making the other person feel totally independent, doing so with a small, satisfied smile that was so like Laura’s that Natasha couldn’t help wishing she had a camera to capture it.

She glanced up from the griddle to catch Clint watching her and the kids with soft, almost wistful eyes. One of the things Natasha found simultaneously endearing and infuriating about Clint was his utter refusal to keep his emotions off his face when he was home. Clint called it being honest with his family, but Natasha couldn’t help but see it as weakness--everything was so clearly written there, the love and the longing and the clear wish to freeze the moment forever.

Clint met her gaze and his expression shifted to something almost apologetic. _Sorry_ , he mouthed, and for a moment, Natasha thought he might say something out loud.

With a glance at the kids to check that they were still busy and bustling, Natasha leaned across the counter to curl a hand over Clint’s cheek. It was almost the same touch she’d extended to Lila, but she couldn’t fool herself to pretend they were alike. Her fingers tingled where they met Clint’s skin, and when he turned his face into the touch to brush his lips over her palm, a barely-there touch, her pulse jumped in her veins.

For a moment, she held his gaze, soft and still.

Nate twisted in Clint’s arm, letting out a small whimper, bordering on a whine, and Clint broke his eyes from Natasha, bouncing Nate gently. “Hey, little dude,” he said, his voice the hushed, gentle tone he only ever used with the kids when they were upset. “You hungry? I bet you’re hungry.” He glanced past Natasha, toward the clock on the wall, and nodded to himself. “Yeah, it’s food time. C’mon, let’s get you up to mama.”

He turned to go upstairs. “Save me some pancakes, yeah?” he called over his shoulder.

Natasha nodded, flipping one of them over, and then, before she could stop herself, said, “Clint.”

Clint paused, one foot on the stairs, and looked back at her.

Natasha chewed her lower lip for a moment, trying to find the right words to say what she was feeling. “I know.”

Clint’s expression softened. “Yeah,” he said. “I know you do.”

**1998**

Budapest is a shitshow before it even starts.

It’s an infiltration and elimination mission, set up by a contact of Natasha’s. The client--unnamed, though Natasha prefers it that way--wants a prominent member of a Russian crime syndicate dead, preferably as messily as possible. Natasha spends ten minutes with the file and determines that she would have done this job for free if it had come across her radar on its own.

The plan, in itself, is simple. Natasha will join the syndicate as a security consultant, with Clint operating behind the scenes as Natasha’s backup. Once she’s in, it’s a matter of time before she’s within range of the target. A delayed-release poison with a twenty-four hour time window, and both Natasha and Clint will be in the wind hours before the man drops dead.

It’s a simple plan. But then, they always are.

The night before the op, they argue.

“I don’t like it,” Clint says.

He’s pacing back and forth across the hotel room, half-dressed, his hair a mess from where he’s been running his fingers through it. Natasha watches him from her place in the room’s single armchair, calm. “You’re being paranoid.”

“I’m not being paranoid, Tasha,” Clint snaps. “It’s not paranoia to think it’s a stupid idea to send the most famous Russian assassin--”

“One of them,” Natasha corrects.

“--into a room full of people who are going to know you on sight!”

Natasha raises her eyebrows. “That’s why I’m not attempting to go in undercover,” she said. “I’m going in as the Black Widow. They know who I am.”

Clint narrows his eyes at her. “And you still think it’s a good idea? After the number of bridges you burned?”

“I’ve been working with Sergei for years,” Natasha says, crossing her arms. “I trust him.”

“You don’t trust anyone.”

Natasha bristles at that. “I trust _you_ ,” she points out, and it wrenches at something inside of her to say it.

Clint stops pacing, his expression softening. She sees him force himself to relax, his shoulders losing some of their tension. “I know you trust me,” he says. “That’s why I want you to trust me on this. Let me go in. I’ve just--I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.”

Natasha takes a deep breath. Clint’s instincts, for everything other than his own bodily safety, are almost always right. But she’s read the file on this target, seen the pictures of the girls he’s sold into dark, cold rooms full of grasping fingers all over the world, and she wants to see him die by her own hand.

(Later, she will think: this is where you went wrong, Nataschenka. You made it personal.)

“I’m going in,” she says, and keeps her voice firm, leaving no more room for argument. “We keep the plan as it is.”

Clint’s face tenses, and then slides into flatness. It’s an expression Natasha hates, and she hates it even more when it’s directed at her. “You’re the boss,” Clint says, and that night, he sleeps on the floor.

The next evening, Natasha walks into a trap.

The meet is at a warehouse in Józsefváros. Even in the lingering sunlight, prostitutes lounge at their corners. Most ignore Natasha as she passes, but some beckon to her coyly with painted nails and half-dead smiles. She shakes her head at them, but tries to do it kindly. Most of them, she knows, didn’t choose their lot. One of them, wraith-thin with hair almost as red as Natasha’s, touches her fingers to her lips and holds them out to Natasha--not to touch her, Natasha thinks; she is a shadow in black leather and barely-concealed weapons, and she does not think the girl dares to touch--but almost as if to offer recognition. Natasha inclines her head, only a hint of a nod, and for a moment the girl’s smile reaches her eyes.

It’s raining as she raps her knuckles against the heavy metal door of the warehouse. The slightest glimmer of light reflecting in the puddling water at her feet is her only signal that Clint is in position in the warehouse across the street, and she knows she wouldn’t have even had that if he hadn’t shown himself intentionally. They’re on comms, tiny earpieces that pick up vibrations in the jaw and an embedded microphone to pick up surrounding noise. The tech is new and fascinating in its tiny complexity, especially to Natasha, who has been in the intelligence game for longer than most of the tech developers have been alive.

A single panel in the door opens, revealing a pair of dark sunglasses. Natasha resists the urge to snort at the predictability. “Who are you?” he barks in Russian.

Natasha keeps her gaze cool. “You know who I am,” she says, letting her mother-tongue accent curl around her syllables. “And I’m expected.”

The panel slides shut. A moment later, the door opens fully, and Natasha steps across the threshold.

Inside the warehouse, the room is large and shadowed, the kind of room that Natasha can’t stand--it’s impossible to calculate all the angles. Her senses have been heightened enough that she can make out more figures than the eight men standing in her immediate vision, but she’s willing to bet there are more. A cold shiver tingles across her skin.

Something is wrong.

One man steps forward from the shadows, tall and dark-haired, and Natasha recognizes their target, Vladimir Bognadov. He smiles at her, a cool, almost serpentine smile. “You are the Black Widow?”

Natasha inclines her head. “You asked for the best in security,” she says, keeping her voice steady, allowing her natural accent to wrap itself around her vowels.

“I have heard that you are the best,” Bognadov says. “But I have heard the same said of others who graduated from your...program.”

Natasha raises her chin, just a fraction. “Then I’ll be pleased to show you in person.”

“I do prefer an in-person demonstration,” Bognadov says. “But I’m afraid that loyalty is another criteria for employment in my operation. And I have heard some…” He smiles. “Concerning rumors regarding yous.”

Natasha holds his gaze. “If that’s the case,” she says, “I’ll take my services elsewhere.”

“No,” Bognadov says. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“There’s movement outside,” Clint says in her ear, his voice tense and low. “Nat, something’s wrong.”

A woman steps from the shadows behind Bognadov. She is tall and blonde and willowy, dressed head to toe in black leather, and she smiles at Natasha like a knife. “Hello, Natalia.”

Natasha’s blood runs cold. “Yelena,” she says.

“Nat,” Clint says. “Nat, get out of there--”

There’s a burst of feedback, enough to make her flinch, and the comm goes silent. Natasha swallows, forcing herself to think of anything but what could have just happened on the other end of the line. She meets Yelena Belova’s cold blue eyes. “I thought you were dead.”

Yelena’s smile widens. “I thought you were smarter,” she says, her voice almost a purr. She tilts her head, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulder. “But then, you always were second best.”

The bullets start flying.

Natasha dives, tumbling back behind a stack of crates. She swears, pulling two guns from their holsters at her hips, and fires over her flimsy cover, keeping a mental count of her shots. Her Glocks have ten-round capacity, and she has six spare magazines at her belt before she’ll need to start throwing knives.

The odds are bad.

She can hear her shots making impact, shouts of pain and splatters that can only be blood and viscera slapping against the walls. Natasha allows herself a grim smile and ejects her empty magazines, slaps in a pair of spares with long-trained reflexes. She exhales hard and jumps to her feet, raising both guns again to fire into the room.

Her first four bullets make headshots, but Natasha doesn’t pause to gloat. Yelena’s aim is as good as hers and her reflexes just as quick, and dodging Yelena’s shots takes more concentration than attempting to even the odds between them. One of Yelena’s bullets passes close enough to slice through the fabric of Natasha’s jacket. She grits her teeth and fires again, this time landing a shot through the fleshy muscle of Yelena’s arm.

Yelena stumbles back with a shriek. “Got you,” Natasha says, and is about to go for the headshot when one of the goons lands a hit through her left shoulder, sending her staggering back several feet. “Fuck,” Natasha hisses, rolling back behind her shelter to assess the damage. She can still move her arm, but she won’t be able to shoot with it. “ _Fuck_.”

She hears Yelena laugh. “Give up, Natalia,” she says. Her voice is thick with pain and triumph. “Your betrayal could only go unpunished for so long. You should meet your death with dignity, as we were trained to do.”

And it’s funny, because fifteen years ago, Natasha would have--would have sunk to her knees and met Yelena’s eyes and let the other woman put a bullet through her brain in the name of Mother Russia and the Red Room. But the Natasha of today is fierce and independent and _angry_ , and she isn’t fighting for just herself anymore.

She thinks of Clint, and the silent comm in her ear, and feels Clint’s words come past her lips. “Go to hell, Yelena,” she says, and swings her remaining gun up.

Before she can fire, there’s an explosion of wood and metal and dust as the wall of the warehouse collapses inward. Natasha ducks instinctively, shielding her eyes from the shrapnel, and hears the screeching of tires as a car crashes through the hole made by whatever had called the explosion.

The car skids to a halt next to her, and the passenger door flies open. “Get in,” Clint snaps at her.

His face is bruised and bloody, his hair a mess, and his black clothes are glistening with blood.

To Natasha, he’s never looked more gorgeous. She rolls to her feet and throws herself into the car, ducking her head under the dash as Clint slams the car into reverse, shooting them backwards through the hole in the wall. Bullets fly behind them and Natasha turns in her seat, grabbing her gun and shooting out the rear windshield so she can return fire.

“For the record,” Clint says, “I’m not saying I told you so.”

Natasha smiles, and it tastes like blood. “I’d let you get away with it.”

“In that case, I told you so.” He throws the car into drive and wheels around hard, setting off out of the district. “Evac?”

“They’ll have the main routes marked,” Natasha said, squinting through the wind. “We can’t get out through the waterfront. Cut east, we’ll try to lose them in traffic in the tenth district.”

“You got it.” Clint spins the wheel, changing their direction.

As he moves his arm, Natasha catches sight of a darker patch of blood staining the side of his shirt. She empties her magazine and ducks behind her seat to reload. “You’re hurt,” she says, and doesn’t give him room to argue.

Clint doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “So are you,” he says. “Can you move your arm?”

“Enough.” Natasha tries to assess how much he’s bleeding. “How bad?”

A bullet flies between them and pierces the windshield. Clint jerks his head away from the tiny shards of glass. “Bad enough,” he says.

For a moment, Natasha stills. “Clint.”

He spares her a glance and a smile, and his lips are tinged with blood. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t die until I get you out of here. I haven’t gotten enough gloating in yet.”

This close, Natasha can see that his skin is waxy under the dust and blood and darkening bruising. She tries to calculate how much blood he’s losing, and gives up when she realizes that she doesn’t even know where he’s hit. “Fine,” she says, biting down every part of her that wants to scream and bringing her gun up again to shoot through the hole that used to be their rear window. “Drive.”

Clint drives. Natasha shoots, and shoots, and keeps shooting. Clint drives with the skill of a carnie kid, stunt driving since the age of twelve but Natasha’s used to it, and she shoots true, plucking off car after car. She shoots out their wheels and smiles with grim satisfaction when they slam into each other.

She keeps careful count of her bullets as she shoots, and swears when she’s down to two and there are still two cars behind them, weaving through the fabric of downtown Budapest. “I’m almost out,” she says.

Clint shifts and pulls a gun from his thigh holster. “Twelve round capacity,” he says. “Had to leave my bow. All I’ve got. Had to leave my bow.”

His breath is coming in shorter bursts now. “We’ll go back for it,” Natasha promises, forcing her panic down, and rises up again to shoot out the wheels of the last two of the cars, watches them flip into each other in a crashing crunch of metal and glass. She hears a scream--she hears many screams, they _are_ in a shooting car chase in the middle of a European city, but this scream is Yelena’s, high and furious and familiar, and Natasha grins.

There are sirens behind them, wailing loud. “We need to ditch the car,” she says.

“And the guns,” Clint says, not missing a beat--he knows her plan. Leave the car, blend into the crowd, let one of what’s sure to be many incoming ambulances take care of their wounds. He wrenches the car into a side alley and jerks the twisted wires to kill the engine.

Natasha unbuckles her holsters and pulls the magazine clips from her belt, kicking open the door. “Let’s go,” she says, staggering a bit as her head spins, the blood loss beginning to hit her as the adrenaline of the chase fades. “Clint, come on.”

He doesn’t move. His head is tilted back against the headrest, and he’s breathing in slow, careful breaths. “I need a minute,” he says.

“We don’t have a minute.” She goes around the front of the car and wrenches Clint’s door open. Clint lolls his head toward her, and his lips curl in a vague smile.

“You’re really beautiful,” he says.

“Shut up,” she snaps. She unfastens the holster around his thigh with clumsy fingers, jerks it off and throws it onto the floor of the car. “Give me your arm.”

Ignoring Clint’s groan of pain, she hauls his arm over her shoulders and pulls him out of the car. He manages to get his legs under him but she’s taking most of his weight as they stagger out of the alley.

They make it into the crowded, chaotic square before Clint’s knees buckle and he goes down. Natasha falls to her knees beside him, barely manages to get a hand under his head before it strikes the pavement. “Clint,” she says, letting some of her fear slip into her voice. “Clint?” He doesn’t answer. Natasha swears, pushing Clint’s jacket aside and pulling his shirt up and swearing when she sees the clustered bullet wounds in his side. “You should have said.”

Clint gives a breathy laugh. “Wouldn’t’ve helped,” he says. His eyes are open, and he watches her as she pulls her jacket off, wincing as it scrapes over wound in her shoulder and presses it hard against his abdomen to try and staunch some of the bleeding. “Nat,” he says. “Nat, I--”

“No,” she snaps, and hates herself when the word comes out choked. “Don’t say it.”

Clint goes silent, but doesn’t take his eyes off her face. His skin is ashen and pale, but his eyes are bright, and she watches the colors in them shift, tries not to think of all the times she’s stared into those eyes and felt like she could drown in them forever. “Tasha,” he says, and she’s only Tasha when he needs her. She swallows a sob. “Tasha, if I--” she presses down harder against his wound, and he makes a pained sound, loses the rest of his sentence. “I need you to tell Laura. Tell Laura I love her.”

And it hurts to hear it, even though it shouldn’t, even though she knows the reason he doesn’t say it to her is because she doesn’t let him. She grits her teeth. “Tell her yourself,” she says.

His lips part, his eyes searching her face, and she doesn’t know what he’s looking for. She can feel his blood pulsing against her fingers through the fabric of her jacket, and the pulses are getting slower.

Behind them, around them, the sirens are getting louder.

“Tasha,” Clint says, and she drags her eyes to meet hers. His expression is young and scared. He lifts one shaking hand and puts it against her cheek. He looks, for a moment, like he wants to say something, and she sees him change his mind. He swallows visibly, looks up at her, and says, “Kiss me?”

There’s more in his voice than she can stand to hear, pain and fear and longing and yes, love, and Natasha can’t choke back her sob this time, leaning down and pressing her lips to his. She can taste blood in his mouth, and his fingers tremble where they curl into her hair.

The paramedics have to pull them apart when they come, and when they try to keep her from his ambulance to put her in her own, Natasha breaks two of their noses until they let her stay by his side.

**2015**

Laura woke when a gentle kiss brushed across her forehead, a broad, familiar hand smoothing through her hair. She smiled at the touch, rolling onto her back and reaching up to twine her arms around Clint’s neck without opening her eyes. “Mm,” she mumbled against his neck. “You smell like baby. And coffee.”

“I’ve been spending my day with baby and coffee,” Clint said, amusement in his voice.

The bed dipped beside her as he sat down, and Laura opened her eyes to sit up and look at him. His hair was mussed, as if he’d been running his hands through it, and a shadow of stubble lined his chin and cheeks. He had Nate cradled in one arm. The baby was clearly awake and moving, but seemed content enough to stay in Clint’s arm. Laura smiled, reaching out to stroke Nate’s cheek. “What time is it?”

“Ten-thirty,” Clint said, and Laura purred with pleasure. Clint laughed. “Figured you’d like that.”

“I love sleep,” she said emphatically. “Clint, sleep is my very favorite thing.”

“So I’ve heard.” He lifted Nate slightly toward her. “Want one of your other favorite things?”

Laura raised her eyebrows. “I’m assuming you mean the baby, not the tiny human trying to pull my nipple off?”

“That’s the one,” he said.

She smiled. “In that case, yes.”

Clint handed Nate over, and Laura slipped her tank top strap over her shoulder, exposing her breast. Nate latched on immediately and she winced at the force of his suck. “Oof.”

“Been a long morning for him,” Clint said. “He was a champ.”

“About time he learned to go a bit without rations,” Laura said, without much force. The initial pain was fading as Nate calmed and settled into a more gentle suckling. She looked up at Clint. “Where are the kids?”

“Downstairs with Nat, making blueberry pancakes. Don’t worry, they’ll save you some.” Clint got off the bed and walked around it to flop down on his side, stretching out beside her and propping his head on his arms. “I like watching her with them,” he said.

Laura sighed, reaching out with her toes to run them along the back of his leg. “I know.”

He turned his head down, muffling his words against his arms. “I want her to stay.”

Laura smiled sadly, even though she knew he couldn’t see it. “I know that, too.”

Clint turned to look at her, his expression uncertain. “I feel bad about it.”

“And I know that.”

He made a face. “I can’t surprise you anymore.”

“No, you can’t.” Clint stuck his tongue out at her, and she returned the motion, then laughed softly, running the fingers of the hand not holding Nate over his back. “I know you’re frustrated, Clint. I am, too. But we can’t push her.”

“I know.” He sat up, running his hand through his hair and mussing it further. “The kids are happy,” he said after a moment.

“Mm. I saw.” When she had tucked Lila in the night before, Lila had sleepily asked if Auntie Nat was going to stay forever this time. Laura had kissed her forehead with her heart in her throat, and had been spared from answering when Lila dozed off. “She’s good with them.”

“Of course she is.” Clint rubbed his face with his hands. “She’s the only one who ever thought she wouldn’t be.” He was quiet for a moment. “I talked to Steve this morning.”

Laura stilled her fingers where she’d been running them in circles along his leg. “Captain Rogers?”

Clint nodded.

She took a breath. “Did he ask you to go back?”

“No.” Clint looked down, fiddling with his wedding ring. “No, he didn’t.”

He didn’t say more, but Laura had been married to him long enough to hear what he didn’t say. “And you wish he did?”

Clint looked up at her, and she could see the guilt in his eyes. “I…” He hesitated, twisting his ring around his finger. “It’s not that I want to go back,” he said quietly. “And I would, if he asked me. It’s just…”

He trailed off. Laura reached out and curled her hand under his chin, turning him to face her. “You want to know that they still need you,” she supplied.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice a little gruff. “Something like that.”

Laura stroked his cheek. “Clint.”

“I know, it’s stupid.” He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I know it’s a wonder I didn’t get killed, running around with gods and superheroes and cyborgs and whatever you want to call Banner. But not being around it anymore, it just makes me feel…” He looked down and shook his head. “It’s stupid.”

“I bet it isn’t,” she said, gentle but firm.

Clint met her eyes. “It makes me feel old,” he said, and she could hear the note of confession in his voice. “And I--I _feel_ old, Laur. Everything aches, and I creak all over the place, and I’ve got all these wrinkles everywhere--don’t laugh,” he adds.

Laura purses her lips. “I wasn’t,” she said.

He sits back against the pillows with a huff. “I’m just saying--when I was with those guys, I had enough adrenaline going that I could pretend I was still running at my prime. Keeping up with guys like that--it made me feel like…” He sighed, looking not at her, but at Nate. He reached out a hand and smoothed his thumb over Nate’s hair. “I feel like a shit husband and a shit father,” he said softly, not meeting her eyes. “Missing something that took me away from you. Being here makes me feel like I’m making something, but being out there…”

“Out there, you were saving the world,” Laura interrupted him. He looked up at her, guilt and weariness and uncertainty in his eyes, and she smiled, leaning over to kiss his nose. “Clint, you’re a good father,” she said. “You’re a good husband. So you miss your job, that doesn’t make you a bad parent. That’s normal. You think I’m not tearing my hair out to go back to work once maternity leave is up? Does that make me a bad mother?”

Clint hesitated. “It’s not the same,” he said. “Your art scissors aren’t going to mutate and kill you.”

“I could get hit by a truck coming home from work,” she pointed out.

He shuddered. “Don’t even joke.”

There was real fear in his voice, and Laura softened. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just saying--Clint, it’s okay to miss your job. It was a huge part of your life. And being an Avenger...as terrifying as it was for me for you to be risking your life, you were risking your life to save the whole world. I can only imagine what it’s like to give that up.”

Clint’s expression wavered slightly. “And you don’t care that I’m getting old?”

Laura rolled her eyes. “Clint Barton,” she said, “You are aging like fine wine.”

He snorted. “Don’t push your luck, woman.”

She laughed. “Fair enough.” She smiled, smoothing his hair back. “Let’s see,” she said, turning his face from side to side. “Crow’s feet--from watching our kids to make sure no one gets hurt when they play outside.” She ran her fingers down to trace the lines around his mouth. “Laugh lines, from years of what I certainly hope has been a joyful marriage.”

Clint caught her hand and kissed her fingertips. “Very,” he said.

Laura squeezed his hand. “Hands,” she said. “Calloused, and maybe a little achey, but still able to hold onto mine, and to hold onto the kids, and to reach out to Tasha.”

“Yeah,” he said, threading his fingers through hers and leaning back against the pillows, resting his head against her shoulder. “All of the above. And maybe someday, she’ll even take it.”

Laura kissed the top of his head. “Here’s hoping,” she said quietly. Clint squeezed her hand, and they lay together in silence, listening to the sounds of Natasha and their children downstairs, the sound of laughter and clinking dishes, light and musical in the late morning sun.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: brief references to child exploitation and sex work; canon-typical violence
> 
> Barely managed to get this up in time, but: Happy Polyshipping Day! 
> 
> This chapter includes a few attempts to reconcile comic canon Natasha, who's been around and kicking for decades, with MCU Natasha, who was apparently born in 1984 (according to Captain America: The Winter Soldier). This fic is going to continue to have some melding of comic and MCU canon, but I'm going to try and keep it as canon-consistent as possible. (There's been a lot of Marvel Wiki reading. Like, a lot.)
> 
> Thank you all for the amazing comments you've been leaving on this fic. I'm sorry for the delay on this chapter--some health issues came up (heat sickness is real, y'all. drink your water and electrolytes!) that prevented me from doing as much work on this as I wanted. I'm so glad you're enjoying the exploration of this relationship as much as I am, and I hope you'll continue to stick with me! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I _cannot_ believe I took over a month to update. You are all such patient champions for sticking with me. I only hope this is worth the wait!
> 
> See the end of chapter notes for content warnings.

**1999**

 

Clint misses Laura’s graduation from Columbia by two days because he’s stuck in a hospital in Pakistan with a constant IV of saline in his arm following seventy-two hours in the desert. Natasha’s doing a job in Berlin, and he ends up grudgingly admitting that it would be stupid to check himself out AMA when he’s still dizzy with dehydration in a country where his Arabic gets him into free food and out of jail but not much further.

 

He gets out after three days and hops the first flight back to the States, calling Laura from a payphone in JFK when he lands. “Happy graduation,” he says as soon as she picks up. “Sorry I’m a horrible boyfriend.”

 

“Clint!” There’s no anger in her voice, just relief.  “Are you okay?”

 

“I’m fine, I’m good. Just got stuck in Pakistan for a little longer than expected.” Clint leans against the pay phone, adjusting the strap of his duffle bag over his shoulder.

 

“Do I want to know what you were doing in Pakistan?”

 

Clint thinks about that. “Probably not,” he decides.

 

Laura laughs. “I’ll take your word for it,” she says, and her voice is tender and soft, the way it always is when he calls her after a job.

 

“I’m sorry I missed your graduation,” he says. “I really wanted to be there, Laur.”

 

“I know you did,” she says. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

 

A little worse for wear, Clint thinks, taking stock of the lingering dizziness and the abrasions on his arms and back from being dragged across the rocky desert floor, but Laura doesn’t need all the details right away. “Listen, I need to crash tonight to sleep off the jet-lag, but can I take you out tomorrow?”

 

He can hear the smile in her voice when she responds. “I’d like that.”

 

“Awesome,” he says, rapidly pulling plans together in his head with the speed he usually reserves for jobs gone horribly wrong. “I’ll pick you up at noon.”

 

“What should I wear?”

 

“Something comfortable,” he says. “And a bathing suit.”

 

“A bathing suit?” She sounds surprised. “What are we doing?”

 

“It’s a surprise.”

 

Laura laughs. “Okay. I trust you.” Her voice goes gentle. “I love you.”

 

“I love you too,” he says, and feels his stomach flip as he says it, just as it does every time. “See you tomorrow.”

 

“See you,” she says, and he waits for the click before replacing the pay phone.

 

Good, Clint thinks. Too tired to navigate the subway, he catches a cab back to his building, shoves two battered fifty-dollar bills at the driver, stumbles up the stairs to his apartment, crashes into bed, and sleeps like he’s dead for the next fourteen hours.

 

He wakes in the late morning with enough time to shower and shave, changing the bandages that still cling over the worst of the abrasions on his skin. The ones on his shoulders and lower back are a pain to get to, but he manages. He grabs a backpack from his closet and lines the bottom with two towels, pulls a clean pair of jeans over his bathing suit, and shoves a baseball cap over his hair before heading out the door.

 

The corner store, like almost every other in Brooklyn, manages to have just about everything he needs. Clint buys a bottle of wine, a few bottles of water, some plastic cups, and an assortment of cheeses and crackers and fruits, packs them into his backpack, and manages to swipe into the subway station in time to grab the C toward Manhattan. He slumps down into his seat and takes off his cap, running his fingers through his hair. He’d caught a news report that said New York was in for a hell of a heatwave for late May. It’s good news for the date he’d planned, but rough for the number of bodies in the subway, and he’s grateful to get out when the train gets to his stop.

 

Laura is waiting for him in front of her building as Clint walks up, and he stops and catches his breath when he sees her. She’s dressed casually in a yellow sundress patterned with subtle white polka dots, a pair of comfortable-looking sandals on her feet. Her hair is coiled into a loose braid laying against her shoulder, and her makeup is subtle, bringing out her natural beauty rather than covering it up.

 

She’s beautiful, and it always strikes Clint as astonishing that she’s chosen to share her life with him.

 

Her face breaks into a smile when she catches sight of him, and he opens his arms just in time for her to fairly leap into them. He breathes in the lavender-sweet smell of her hair and skin, tucking his face into the crook of her neck and nuzzling his nose against her shoulder until she giggles and shrieks, squirming away from him with a laugh. “Hi,” he says.

 

“Hello,” she says, tiptoeing up to kiss him. She cups his face in her hands and turns it from side to side, looking at him. “You don’t look too beaten-up.”

 

“Nah,” he says. “They let me off easy.” He grins at her wince. “Aw, come on. It’s not that bad.”

 

Laura makes a face. “I just worry,” she says, and then looks at his backpack. “Is this a backpack date?”

 

“That’s a secret,” he says. He holds out his hand. “Ready?”

 

Laura smiles, and slips her hand into his. “Always.”

 

He takes her to Coney Island, because the last time they’d talked she’d complained that she’d been living in New York for almost two years and still hadn’t been. Coney goes up and down every few years, and it’s mostly okay this summer, crawling with tourists and locals taking advantage of the surprising late May heat. Laura laughs with delight at a pair of children shrieking as they run into the still-frigid ocean, squeezing Clint’s hand. “This is great.”

 

“It’ll get better,” Clint promises. He leads her down the beach to a more secluded cove, less crowded and quieter, and spreads the towels he’d brought down on the sand. Laura settles down on one with a smile, and laughs when he produces the bottle of wine, plastic cups, and assortments of snacks. “Your fancy wine and cheese selection, my lady,” he says, popping the cork with a flourish.

 

Laura’s laugh is like music. “It’s beautiful,” she says, taking a cup from Clint.

 

“You’re beautiful,” he shoots back, but he’s grinning, gently tapping his cup against hers. “Congratulations, babe. I’m so proud of you.”

 

“Thank you.” Laura looks down into her cup of wine, a small smile playing around her lips. “Now I just need to get a job.”

 

Her voice is uncertain, tinged with insecurity, and Clint frowns, reaching out to tilt her chin up. “Hey,” he says gently. “What’s going on?”

 

“Just...job searching.” She brushes a few loose strands of hair behind her ear. “I’ve never really had to do it before, and it’s just...overwhelming. There’s so many kids out there, and so many schools, and I keep interviewing, but I haven’t gotten any offers yet. My grad school stipend is ending soon, and my parents are going to help me out with my rent for a little while, but…” She shrugs. “I’m just worried. I’ve been in school for so long that it’s weird to suddenly feel like a grown-up, I guess. And I don’t really know how to be one.”

 

Clint can’t help chuckling at that. Clint’s twenty-eight with a middle-school education, a rap sheet a mile long, and a career built on great aim and good morals, but he pays his rent and bills and even kept a plant alive for awhile. “Laura, babe,” he says, curving his hand over her cheek and bringing her eyes up to meet his. “ _Nobody_ knows how to be an adult. We’re all just faking it and hoping nobody notices.”

 

And maybe it’s awful to say, but it makes Laura smile, and she turns her face to kiss his palm. “Thank you,” she says. “That’s actually...really helpful to say.”

 

He leans over to kiss her, gently. “What I’m here for,” he says, and her smile goes a bit broader. “And hey,” he adds. “If the rent thing gets too stressful...You’re welcome to stay at my place.”

 

Laura blinks, her smile faltering slightly. “Clint,” she says. “Did you just ask me to move in with you?”

 

Clint opens his mouth, and then closes it. He wonders if this is what deer feel like in front of an oncoming car. “Um,” he says. “Not...intentionally.” Laura’s brow furrows, and Clint backpedals. “Shit, sorry. That came out wrong. I just didn’t really--think about it.” _Nope, Barton_ , he thinks as Laura’s face freezes. _Not helping_. “Okay. Pause. Let me start over.” He takes a deep breath. “I wasn’t thinking about living with you when I offered up my apartment,” he says. “And I’m not actually totally sure that I’m ready for that--living together full time, for good. Mostly because my apartment’s in kind of a sketchy spot, and I’m away a lot. But if you need somewhere to stay, you can stay with me. And I’d like to talk about living together. Sometime soon.”

 

Laura looks vaguely amused. “Clint,” she says. “Did you know you have an amazing ability to be simultaneously adorable and disastrous?”

 

“It may have been mentioned,” Clint acknowledges, uncurling from the cringe he’d automatically settled into. “Sorry.”

 

She laughs. “It’s okay,” she says. His face must not change, because she smiles, running her fingers through his hair. “It’s _okay_ , Clint,” she says. “Really.” She runs her thumb over the back of his neck, against the line of his hair. “I’m not ready to live together yet either. We only see each other a few days a month. It works for us, and I love you, but we’d need to spend a lot more consecutive time together before I’d consider living together.”

 

Clint relaxes. “Oh,” he says. “Okay. Good. That’s good.” He hesitates, because part of him will always be the lost, lonely little boy going from foster home to foster home, running away to the circus, and being left behind again and again, and then reminds himself that this is Laura and she loves him, and says, “And this...this works for you? It still works for you?”

 

Laura’s eyes soften, and Clint knows she’s hearing everything he’s not saying, because she always does. “Yes, Clint,” she says gently, bringing her other hand up to curl it against his jaw. “It still works for me.”

 

Clint swallows and reaches for her, and Laura leans into his arms, wrapping her own around his neck. “I love you,” he says against her neck, and her fingers curl into the fabric of his t-shirt.

 

“I love you, too.”

 

They stay curled together until Laura squirms and complains that her back is cramping, and Clint laughs softly, letting her go. She smiles at him, her eyes bright and sparkling, and shifts to lean more comfortably against him. They clink their plastic glasses together, toast to the future, and play on the beach until the sun sinks beneath the sea, coloring the sky in shades of pink and gold and blue, and Clint feels utterly, perfectly at peace.

 

**2015**

 

After a short nap with Clint and a much-needed shower without him, Laura tied her hair back and headed downstairs for some tea, leaving Clint and the baby sleeping in the bedroom.

 

The first floor was quiet when she reached the landing, and Laura peered curiously into each room, vaguely suspicious of the silence. She took stock of the abandoned coloring books in the family room, the breakfast dishes in the sink, and was contemplating looking under the furniture when the sounds of muffled laughter trickled in from outside. She recognized Lila’s giggles immediately and smiled, determining that aliens had not, in fact, abducted her children. She fixed herself a mug of tea and slipped on a pair of flip-flops, stepping out onto the porch.

 

Late morning sunlight shone down through the trees, bright enough that Laura had to shield her eyes with her spare hand. “Should’ve brought sunglasses,” she muttered, wincing as she squinted around.

 

A soft laugh to her right made her turn, in time to see Natasha unfolding herself from her curled position on the porch swing. “Here,” she said, smiling in amusement and holding out a pair of sunglasses. “I brought a spare. You always forget yours.”

 

“They’re only inside,” Laura protested, but she smiled anyway, sliding the sunglasses on and settling down onto the swing next to Natasha. She could see Cooper and LIla playing together in the yard, kicking a soccer ball back and forth. “Are they getting along?”

 

“Mm.” Natasha put her book down on the small table next to the swing. “There was a brief scuffle. I handled it.”

 

Laura laughed. “I believe it.” She blew lightly on her tea, watching the steam drift away on the summer breeze. “Relaxed morning?”

 

“More or less.” Natasha drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She looked pensive for a few moments, and Laura waited patiently, practiced enough with Natasha’s silences to know when to let her take her time. “Clint talked to Steve about me.”

 

Laura frowned. “Behind your back? That’s not like him.”

 

Natasha shook her head, red curls bouncing slightly with the motion. “Not like that,” she said. “Steve was asking about Bruce.”

 

“Oh.” Laura mulled that over. Clint’s surprise when Laura had pointed out the long, lingering glances between Natasha and Dr. Banner had struck her as amusing at the time, but there had been an almost defensive possessiveness under his gruff shock. As much as they both knew Nat was free to make her own choices, Laura knew it was harder for Clint than it was for her to see her actually _make_ some of those choices. “Do you...Do you want to talk about it?”

 

Natasha looked amused. “Do _you_ want to talk about it?”

 

“Shush, you know that’s not how I meant it.” Laura blew on her tea again and took a careful sip. “You haven’t talked about what happened between the two of you, but something clearly did. I didn’t know if it was because you didn’t want to, or because you thought we wouldn’t want to hear it, or…”

 

“I talked to Clint about it a bit,” Natasha said. Laura must have looked affronted, because Natasha smiled wryly. “Don’t look like that. You were busy at the time.”

 

“I’m never too busy for you,” Laura protested.

 

Natasha arched one eyebrow. “You were in labor with Nate.”

 

“Oh.” That was fair. “When did you have time for that?”

 

“It was one of those times when you told me to get him out of the room before you punched him in the face,” Natasha said. “Although I’d say he deserved it, making you go through that a third time.”

 

“He’s had his nose broken enough,” Laura said, more than a little fondly. “Besides,” she added, looking out at the yard to where Cooper was showing Lila a trick to bounce the soccer ball off her knees and feet, “he gives me really lovely babies.”

 

Natasha snorted. “You give _him_ lovely babies,” she said. “The way I remember it, he just helped with the fun parts.”

 

Laura looked at her over the rim of her mug, amused. “The way _I_ remember it, you weren’t complaining about his level of participation at the time.”

 

“Point,” Natasha conceded, the barest hint of a flush rising to her cheeks. Laura knew her well enough to know that it wasn’t from embarrassment. “Still, you do all the hard work.”

 

“True,” Laura agreed, smiling. “But I enjoy most of it.” She slipped one foot out of her flip-flop and prodded Natasha lightly with her toe. “Hey,” she said, gentling her tone. “I really would listen, if you wanted to talk about it.”

 

Natasha toyed with the hem of the flannel shirt she was wearing--Clint’s, Laura noted with amusement. “About the Bruce thing?”

 

“The Bruce thing,” Laura said. “If that’s what we’re calling it.”

 

Natasha shrugged. “We might as well,” she said. “I can’t really think of anything better.”

 

Laura sipped her tea, choosing her words with care. “I take it that means things didn’t go very fall.”

 

“Not so much,” Natasha said, her tone dry. She tugged at a loose string in the sleeve of the flannel, wrapping and unwrapping it around her thumb. “It was a dream, I guess,” she said, looking down. “With SHIELD gone, the Avengers felt like the last thing in my life that hadn’t gotten screwed up somehow.” Laura kept her face carefully still, hiding it behind her mug. “And it seemed like everything was going well. The team was working together, the world wasn’t actively falling apart, and I guess I just...I wanted to try to build something.”

 

It took some effort, but Laura kept herself from being offended that Natasha had chosen Bruce over them. “Okay,” she said, trying to sound inviting.

 

The look Natasha gave her suggested that she wasn’t buying Laura’s tone for a second, but she seemed to decide to ignore it. “Bruce was...At first he was just a challenge. You know me, I like--I like control, I like knowing what’s coming, what to expect. And Bruce is anything but predictable.” She took a breath, toying with the thread. “I started thinking about it when we were trying to figure out the lullaby.” She paused, glancing up. “Did Clint tell you about that?” Laura nodded, and Natasha continued. “At first we thought it would make sense if it was Stark--he and Bruce were the closest, then. But I wanted to try it. If I could tame the Hulk, I thought that would make Bruce realize that we could have something, that we could make something work between us.”

 

Laura nodded over the rim of her mug, drinking to keep herself from asking any questions.

 

Natasha finally pulled the string loose and made a face, dropping it onto the table beside her book and lacing her fingers together with a small sigh. “I pushed,” she said. “I pushed too hard, and I treated him like a mark. With SHIELD gone, I was trying to figure out who to be, but instead I just kept cycling through masks with him, like I could see who _he_ wanted me to be. I was the nursemaid, the confidante, the sexpot...I was always a different person, it was no wonder he kept me at arm’s length.” She took a deep breath. “When we were here, after what happened with Wanda, I decided that enough was enough. I felt raw, and angry, and I couldn’t put it on you, not with the baby coming, and so I just told him.”

 

She paused, but didn’t continue, so Laura prompted, gently, “Told him what?”

 

“Graduation,” Natasha whispered, her gaze directed firmly on her feet.

 

Laura felt her stomach clench, low and deep. She remembered the day that Natasha had told her about the Red Room and their ceremonies, and the visceral horror and fury that had washed through her veins then came back with the same fervor now. She swallowed hard, tamping down on the rage and schooling her voice to calmness. “Okay,” she said. “And then what?”

 

Natasha looked up at her through her eyelashes, just a flicker. “We talked,” she said. “I thought maybe it would help him see that he wasn’t--he wasn’t the only fucked-up person there. Not the only person who’d had the things that made them human, that made them _real_ , ripped out of them to turn them into killers. Not the only monster on the team.”

 

Laura felt her calm snap. “ _Absolutely not_ ,” she said, surprising herself at the ferocity in her voice. Natasha must have been surprised as well, her head snapping up as she met Laura’s gaze with wide, too-bright eyes. Laura put her tea down on the side table with a louder _clack_ than she intended, reaching over to cup Natasha’s face in her hands. “You are _not_ a monster, Tasha,” she said, struggling to keep her tone in check. “You are a _perso_ n, a person with more love in her heart than even seems possible. A person who is kind, and compassionate, and funny, with an amazing capacity for joy and wonder. The people who trained you tried to take that away from you, they tried to take it, but they _failed_ , Tasha.”

 

Natasha blinked, and two large, full tears fell from the corners of her eyes, rolling over her cheeks and down to Laura’s thumbs. “Laura,” she croaked. “I--”

 

“No,” Laura snapped, cutting her off. “You are an incredible person, Natasha, and no twisted underground training camp could ever take that away. You’re my best friend, my husband’s best friend, my partner, my children’s favorite aunt, my children’s other _mother_. You are listed in our wills as the person who will take the children if, God forbid, something happens to Clint and me. Do you think I would trust you with that if you were the monster you think you are? Do you think _Clint_ would trust you with that?” She could hear her voice rising, and she caught herself, taking a deep breath and lowering her voice. “You will not call the woman I love a monster, Natasha,” she said, holding Natasha’s gaze and trying to keep her own tears from falling. “Not here. Not ever.”

 

She could feel Natasha trembling under her hands, her tears warm against Laura’s thumbs. “Laura,” she whispered, and then, slowly, curled inward. Her face pulled away from Laura’s hands and she pressed it into Laura’s chest instead, her hands coming up to fist in the fabric of Laura’s shirt. Her shoulders shook and Laura realized that she was truly crying, silent tears seeping into her shirt. Laura wrapped her arms around her, stroking her hands through Natasha’s hair and letting her own tears spill hot and damp from her eyes.

 

They had spent the last two nights curled around each other, but this was different--it was always different, in daylight, and Laura couldn’t remember the last time they had done this, cried in each other’s arms without the cover of darkness to make it feel less intimate, less unsafe. Natasha’s grip on her shirt was fierce and clinging, and Laura clung back just as strongly, letting herself feel, for the first time since Clint had come back from Sokovia, battered and bruised and stitched-up but alive, the frantic relief of knowing that Natasha, too, was alive and safe. She was hurt in a way that Clint wasn’t, aching from a deeper place, and Laura wanted nothing more than to keep her home for good, keep her here where she’d be warm and safe and loved.

 

She wouldn’t stay, of course, but Laura never stopped wanting.

 

It took a long time for Natasha’s tears to stop. She raised her head in slow increments, taking several moments to open her eyes and look at Laura. “Hi,” she said, her voice hoarse and trembling.

 

Laura swallowed the lingering lump in her throat. “Hi,” she whispered back, stroking Natasha’s hand back. “Are you okay?”

 

Natasha nodded, reaching up to brush a few strands of Laura’s hair behind her ear. “I think I needed that,” she admitted, and then smiled, slow and hesitant. “You really think all of that?”

 

“You know I do,” Laura said, and, on impulse, leaned forward and dropped a kiss to Natasha’s nose. Clearly caught off-guard, Natasha laughed, surprised and natural, and Laura smiled. “You’re my best friend, Tasha,” she said, letting the nickname she hadn’t used in years slip from her lips one more time. “And no matter what you’ve done or what was done to you, I will always, always love you.”

 

“I know.” Natasha kissed Laura’s cheek, then reached forward to take her hand, twining their fingers together. “I know.”

 

They sat together on the porch swing, rocking quietly, watching the children play on the yard. Laura shifted to lean her head on Natasha’s shoulder and Natasha picked up Laura’s nearly-cool tea, and they passed it back and forth between them, letting the gentle creak and sway of the swing keep them in a soft, contented silence.

 

**2000**

 

The job goes off without a hitch, but Natasha still feels like her skin is crawling.

 

It was a hit and run job--taking out the sort of man that neither of them sleep badly after killing. Clint had practically skipped as he ran the explosive lines under the guy’s car, and Natasha had watched with more than a little amusement. “There’s something really wrong with you,” she’d told him, keeping lookout perched on top of the roof of the car.

 

“You’re no fun,” Clint had responded, his voice muffled under the car. “Besides, this guy fucks with little kids. He deserves everything he’s getting.”

 

Fair enough, Natasha had decided.

 

Death by exploding car is better than the mark deserves, but Natasha still feels a satisfied thrill as she watches the C-4 detonate from the outdoor cafe across the street from where the car is parked. Clint is an expert in laying explosives and the detonation is perfect--shrapnel falling in a controlled and marked range to ensure no civilian casualties.

 

Or at least, it should be.

 

Just as the mark is climbing into his car and Natasha can see him putting the key in the ignition, a little girl loses her ball and it rolls into the street. The girl chases after the ball as the mark turns the key, and Clint is already moving as the explosion rocks the street.

 

Everything turns into carefully controlled chaos. Natasha’s yell of Clint’s name is lost in the surrounding panicked screams, and she is seriously thinking of murdering him for running _towards_ a bomb that _they_ planted when he emerges from the smoke cloud, sooty but apparently unhurt, the little girl wrapped securely in his arms. The girl can’t be more than four or five, clinging to Clint’s jacket, and he’s got one hand holding her head against his shoulder, protecting her from the swirling smoke.

 

He jogs over to Natasha, shifting the little girl onto his hip as he reaches her, out of the reach of the smoke and heat of the explosion. “Hey,” he tells her, and then goes back to soothing the little girl in passable French as she cries against his shoulder.

 

Somehow, Natasha manages not to hit him, just grabs him by the arm and pulls him further away from the panicked crowd. Clint boosts the girl up more comfortably, still talking to her, and slowly, her sobs settle down, a small smile breaking through her tears.

 

Clint has gotten the girl--Celeste, they’ve learned--to begin to giggle at his terrible French as she sits on his lap on the stoop of a building away from the chaos when a tall, harried black woman runs up to them. Celeste gives a shriek of glee and leaps out of Clint’s arms and into the woman’s. Clearly Celeste’s mother, the woman showers Clint with thanks and kisses both his cheeks before leading the little girl away. Celeste waves happily at Clint over her mother’s shoulder. Grinning, he waves back, and Natasha can only grit her teeth.

 

It’s only later, in the hotel shower, that Natasha gives up on scrubbing her skin raw and makes her way into the room they’re sharing that night. Clint is lounging on the bed when she emerges from the bathroom, and glances up at her, concern in his eyes. “Hey,” he says, deceptively light. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d drowned. Thought about sending in a search party.”

 

“Very funny,” she says, dropping her towel. She ignores the way his eyes sweep appreciatively over her body and pulls one of his shirts out of his suitcase, pulling it over her head and then stepping into a pair of underwear. She catches Clint rolling his eyes, and can’t help smiling. He always packs twice as many t-shirts as he needs on jobs, knowing she’ll steal his to wear. “Is it okay if we turn in early tonight?”

 

“Course,” he says, rolling over to make room for her and pushing the covers down. Natasha sweeps her hair up into a messy bun and climbs in beside him, letting him flick off the light.

 

The room plunges into comfortable darkness and for a few moments, Natasha just lets herself lie there, listening to the sound of Clint’s breathing.

 

After a few minutes, though, Clint speaks. “Are we going to talk about it?”

 

Natasha sighs. “The kid thing?”

 

“The kid thing.” Beside her, Clint rolls onto his side. In the darkness, she can make out his form and, if she focuses, his features. She doesn’t focus. “You looked at me like I was carrying something that might explode.”

 

“You did just run out of an explosion,” Natasha points out, but she knows it’s half-assed. “It’s complicated.”

 

“Nat.” Clint reaches down and laces his fingers with hers. “I’ve known you for ten years. You can’t shock me.”

 

You might be surprised, Natasha thinks. She takes his hand and uses it to pull his arm around her. Taking the hint, Clint tugs her comfortably into his arms. Natasha closes her eyes and rests her head on his shoulder. There’s a lump in her throat, and she doesn’t bother trying to swallow it away. She has never told anyone what she’s about to tell Clint, and saying the words, she knows, will change everything. Forcing down the shame and fear already bubbling in her belly, she whispers, “I can’t have children.”

 

For a moment, Clint is quiet, combing the fingers of his free hand through her hair. The motion is probably meant to be soothing, but Natasha can’t relax until she knows what he’s going to say, what he’s thinking. She holds herself still, too tense to even lean into his touch. Finally, Clint says softly, “I know.”

 

Whatever reaction Natasha had expected, it wasn’t that. She snaps her head up off his shoulder. “What do you mean, you know?”

 

Even after all these years, her first instinct is distrust and suspicion, and she can see the exhaustion on Clint’s face as he sits up, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “Because I’ve known you for a decade, Nat,” he says. “And you’ve never had a period. And you’ve never once talked to me about birth control. And you always make me deal with kids on jobs, because you look at them like you can’t decide whether to run or cry or shoot something or all of those things at once.” He looks at her, his gaze focusing easily in the darkness. “It’s my job to notice things, Tash,” he says, gently. “I thought you just didn’t want to talk about it.”

 

“I didn’t,” Natasha hears herself say, her voice unsteady. She swallows, trying to center herself back in her body, in this moment. “I don’t.”

 

“But here we are.” Clint reaches out and brushes her hair back, a familiar, gentle motion. She knows it’s meant to calm her, and to her own surprise, it works. “Do you want to tell me more?”

 

Her immediate thought is to say no, to tell him to just leave it at that and go to sleep, but instead, she finds herself curling down to rest her head in his lap while he stays sitting. It makes her feel small, but safe, not vulnerable. “I was sixteen,” she says. “They started us at six. Twenty-eight of us. Children.” She shudders. Clint’s fingers are soft and calm in her hair, and she tries to keep her breathing even. “They trained us to fight, to gather intel, to…”

 

The next words turn to dust in her mouth. Long-buried memories run slimy fingers along the edges of her mind, trying to pull her back to dark rooms where adult hands and smiling mouths waited to touch her skin and use her body as a weapon. She pushes them away. Clint would listen to those memories, she knows--she has woken him from more than a few of his own nightmares, and knows his childhood and adolescence were no kinder than her own--but there is only so much she can share tonight. “To graduate the program, to become a true Black Widow, we had to prove we could kill,” she said. “That was the final test. When we did, there would be a graduation ceremony. We were told it was a biochemical treatment that would enhance our strength, our speed, our healing--we would earn it if we passed the test, proved ourselves worthy. But there was a second part.”

 

She pauses, glancing up at Clint. His expression is unreadable, and that worries her--he’s easier to handle when he’s angry than when she can’t read his face. As if sensing her uncertainty, he leans down and brushes a kiss against her forehead. “Go on,” he says. “It’s okay.”

 

Natasha laces her fingers with his and draws her knees closer to her chest. “We weren’t supposed to find out about it,” she says. “But the older girls, the girls who had passed already, they talked when they thought we weren’t listening. And I--I didn’t want it to happen to me. So I tried to fail the test.”

 

Above her, Clint takes a careful breath. “And?”

 

“And it didn’t work. They had spent too long training me. They knew me too well to believe I could be so sloppy. They told me to try again. To do it right.” She swallows. “I did. After that, it’s blurry. I remember being wheeled into surgery, told that the ceremony would leave me stronger than I was. That everything that could have held me back would disappear.” She closes her eyes. “That was their reasoning, I found out later. We weren’t supposed to have any attachments, anything that could keep us from completing a mission. And what could hold a woman back more than a child? So they took away the temptation. The only thing a Widow could mother was death.”

 

Clint’s fingers clench on hers, and she stops, looking up at him, half-afraid of what she’ll see, but there’s no trace of the disgust she fears. He looks horrified, yes, but it’s tinged with heartbreak, his eyes shining too-bright in the dim lighting. She reaches up with her spare hand and touches the corner of his eye, feeling the moisture there. It surprises her, somehow, that he’s crying for her. “I’m sorry, Tasha,” he whispers. “Nat, I’m so sorry that they did that to you.”

 

She shakes her head. “It probably saved my life,” she says, though the words feel hollow to her. “And in some ways, they were right. It did make me a better killer. They hardened my heart more than I ever thought possible. And someone like me, who’s done the things I’ve done--what kind of mother could I have hoped to be?”

 

“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t say that.” He cups her cheek in his hand. “You’re brave, Tasha, brave and kind. Don’t think I’ve forgotten what kind of life you saved me from.”

 

She hasn’t, and she probably never will. Clint was nineteen when she met him and had looked two years younger, scrawny and underfed, bruises on his face and arms and wrists and hips that were all too familiar to her. “It doesn’t matter,” she says. “I probably wouldn’t have wanted them anyway.” Clint is quiet for just a moment too long, and she suddenly feels a new curl of fear. “Clint?”

 

He swallows visibly. “I’m here.”

 

“I…” She hesitates, unsure how to ask the question. “Clint, do you--”

 

“I don’t know.” He takes a slow breath, in and out, the way he does when he’s lining up a shot. “I haven’t thought about it that much. There were always other kids around me--in the orphanage, in foster homes, in the circus...I’m good with them. I like kids. But my dad--who knows what kind of genes I’ve got. Maybe my dad used to think he’d be good at it, too.”

 

“Clint, no.” Natasha sits up sharply, frowning at him. He looks miserable. Sometimes she forgets that despite their looks, she’s much, much older than he is, but moments like this remind her. “You’re nothing like your father.”

 

Clint laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You don’t know that.”

 

“I know _you_ ,” she says firmly, taking both his hands and gripping them, tight enough that her fingers hurt with the strain.

 

Clint holds her gaze. “I know you, too,” he says quietly. “You could be a good mother, Nat. If you wanted to. We could find a way.”

 

And they could, Natasha knows. Clint is single-minded and determined, and if she told him she wanted this, he would find a way to make it happen. She doesn’t know what scares her more--that Clint wants children enough to consider having them with her, or that she cares for him enough to consider having them at all. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “I--no.”

 

She catches the flash of disappointment that crosses Clint’s face an instant before it vanishes, replaced by quiet calm. “Okay,” he says, and gives her a small, sad smile. “I can understand that.” He strokes a hand through her hair. “Think you can sleep?”

 

It’s a clumsy change of subject, but she’s grateful for the opportunity. “Yes,” she says. “Yeah, I can.”

 

They rearrange themselves back into a sleeping position, Clint’s front to Natasha’s back. She wraps his arm around her and laces her fingers through his, and he kisses the back of her neck. “Hey,” he says, after a few moments of silence. “Thank you. For telling me.”

 

She nods against his arm. “For what it’s worth,” she says. “I think you would be a good father. It’s just...it’s not something I can do.”

 

“Don’t worry about it. It’s okay.”

 

There’s no lie in his voice, but something in his tone makes her feel uneasy. She doesn’t sleep for a long time, and from the sound of his breathing, neither does Clint.

 

**2015**

 

Late that afternoon, as the peak of the afternoon heat finally began to break, the five of them--well, six, Clint reasoned, but Nate barely counted--gathered in the living room for what Lila cheerfully called “family exercise time.” In reality, Clint had remarked once to Laura, it was a more like “parental physical therapy time for the amusement of all present children,” but she had pointed out that it didn’t have nearly the same ring to it.

 

He stretched out on the floor, having forfeited most of his yoga mat to Lila’s tumbling, trying to force the tension from his lower back while mindfully watching the rest of the room. Cooper was making a valiant attempt to balance in a handstand against the wall without being shaken by the force of Lila’s occasional somersaults, and was, Clint noted with proud approval, doing a surprisingly good job with it. Laura was moving smoothly through a post-natal yoga routine, her hair swept into a messy bun on top of her head to be out of her way. The sunlight streaming through the window turned the loose fabric of her clothing near-translucent, and Clint gave himself a few moments to admire the strength of her body. Natasha’s physicality had barely changed at all in the years he’d known her, but three children and nearly twenty years had made Laura different in amazing, beautiful ways.

 

Laura caught him staring and smiled. “Sap,” she said.

 

“What?” He gave her a defensive look. “You don’t know what I was thinking!”

 

“For a spy, you have a terrible poker face,” Natasha said dryly, upside-down in a backbend. She winced slightly as she came out of it, and Clint felt slightly mollified to know that despite her apparent agelessness, she still sometimes felt the creaks of her years as much as he did. Settling down cross-legged, she began a series of stretches for her left shoulder, the one Clint knew had been injured when SHIELD went down in DC. “It’s like I never taught you anything.”

 

“You taught me plenty,” Clint said, stretching out his hamstrings and trying--but probably not succeeding--at keeping the pain off his face as the old scars on the underside of his thighs pulled with the motion. “Ow. Da--darn,” he amended quickly, catching Laura’s sharp glare. “Sorry.”

 

“Close one, Barton,” Natasha said. Clint stuck his tongue out at her.

 

“Children,” Laura said. “That’s enough.”

 

“I’m older than you,” Clint reminded her, switching legs and relaxing slightly. This one hurt less.

 

Laura arched one eyebrow at him. “Could have fooled me.”

 

“No fighting,” Lila said. “It’s not allowed. Family rules.”

 

Cooper tumbled out of his handstand and Clint grinned proudly as his son rolled smoothly into a sitting position. Good to know his genes had been good for something. “It is not,” he said. “Mom, tell her that’s not a rule.”

 

“I’m very tempted to make it one,” Laura said. She leaned down into a wide-legged forward bend, an audible sigh slipping past her lips. “Cooper, honey, can I borrow you?” Cooper climbed obediently to his feet and went to her. “Just press down on my lower back. There, good.” She breathed out, a little less relaxed this time.

 

Clint strained his neck to try and see her features. “You okay?”

 

“Mm.” She sounded tense, but there wasn’t pain in it. “Good stretch. Your kid is heavy and he’s making my muscles tense up.”

 

Clint snorted. “Why are they always my kids when they’re bothering you?” He shifted around to start going through his own shoulder stretches, and immediately winced. He knew he carried most of his tension in his arms, shoulders, and upper back, and wasn’t nearly as diligent at keeping up with PT as he should be.

 

Natasha paused, looking at him over the arm stretched across her chest. “Clint?”

 

“I’m okay.” He took a breath and started on the first set of exercises. The muscles twinged as he moved, and he had to work hard not to tense up more. _This is what happens when you let yourself get out of practice, Barton_ , he told himself. _What the hell would you have done if something or someone had found the house? Could you even pull a bow right now?_

 

That thought slammed a wave of nauseous horror through him, and he had to bite down on his lips to keep from crying out or throwing up.

 

“Daddy?” Lila’s voice was small and tinged with concern. “Are you okay?”

 

Clint swallowed hard. “Fine, baby,” he said, forcing a smile to his face as he got to his feet. “I just need to run upstairs for a second. Left my PT band in the bedroom.”

 

He turned on his heel and made a beeline up the stairs without waiting for a reply, doing his best to keep his steps calm and even and not the sprint he wanted. He didn’t bother to close the bedroom door behind him, just went straight for the master bathroom and dropped to his knees, resting his head on the cool porcelain of the toilet and trying to breathe through his nose, willing his stomach to settle.

 

“Clint?”

 

Clint closed his eyes. He hadn’t heard Natasha’s approach, but it didn’t surprise him that she was there already. It wasn’t her way to give him space if she didn’t think it was good for him. “Yeah,” he croaked.

 

He felt her come into his space, aware of her presence at his back even before she knelt beside him and lay a cool hand against his neck. “What happened?”

 

The tenderness in her voice, so rare these days against the teasing snark that had become their baseline over the past few years, made his eyes sting. Clint dragged in a breath to try and speak, and then shook his head, not trusting his voice yet.

 

“Okay.” Natasha stood. Clint heard water run at the sink before a damp, cool washcloth was folded over the back of his neck. It wasn’t as soothing as the touch of her hand, and he reached for her only to find her waiting, her fingers twining easily with his. “I saw you wince,” she said quietly, after a moment had gone by in silence. “Was it something to do with your arm?” Clint nodded against the rim of the toilet bowl, and Natasha ran her thumb gently across his knuckles. “It’s okay to be out of practice,” she said. “You’re practically retired, Clint. You don’t need to be in fighting shape all the time.”

 

“Yes, I do.” Clint swallowed and raised his head, looking her in the face. Her features, still smooth and young after all these years, looked back at him, concern in her eyes. “Nat, this is my family. My children. I spent the last twenty-five years making enemies. We’re off the grid, but we’re not impossible to find. If I can’t draw a bow, if I’m too old and sore and I can’t protect them--”

 

The nausea came back and he bent his head again, this time unable to stop the dry heaves. Natasha rubbed his back gently. When the retching stopped, Natasha kissed his shoulder through his t-shirt. “I didn’t realize,” she said quietly. “When did you start to worry about that?”

 

Clint closed his eyes, sitting back on his heels. “When I brought you guys here after Wanda,” he admitted, too tired to lie. “Seeing Steve here, bouncing back so quickly, it just made me feel so...weak.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I never kidded myself about the Initiative. I knew I wasn’t a billionaire in armor or a god or a super-soldier or any of that, but I always thought that I’d at least be able to protect my family, even when I got too old to save the world. But this last run--it seems like something’s always creaking, or sore, or…”

 

Natasha smoothed a hand through his hair. “You’re not weak, Clint.”

 

He snorted. “You don’t have to placate me, Nat.”

 

She opened her mouth, probably to object, but was interrupted when Laura slipped quietly into the room. “I sent the kids to pick out a movie for after dinner,” she said, closing the door behind her. “What’s going on?”

 

“Clint’s having a bit of a mid-life crisis,” Natasha said, and the snark was back again. To Clint, though, it sounded forced, and she hadn’t taken her hand out of his. “He feels like he’s getting too old to protect you.”

 

Laura’s expression, already worried, turned soft and tender. She settled down on Clint’s other side and took his other hand, kissing his knuckles. “I thought we talked about this already,” she said. “Just this morning, wasn’t it?”

 

“Didn’t stick, I guess,” he said.

 

She shook his head. “My stalwart hero,” she said, squeezing his hand. “What makes you think you can’t protect us?”

 

“Couldn’t stretch my arm,” he said, and it felt almost embarassing to say it now, to have had such a reaction to such a small thing. He’d fought his way out of deadly scrapes with two broken wrists--stupid, to believe himself incapacitated just because he couldn’t pull a bow. “It’s stupid. Not like I couldn’t just pick up a gun.”

 

But Laura had always been able to read him better than he could read himself. “That bow’s been your lifeline for years,” she said gently, no trace of mocking in her voice. “Clint, you think I don’t know how much of yourself is tied into that thing?” He ducked his head, but she curled a hand over his cheek and turned him to face her. “You’ve been fighting your whole life, love,” she said, her eyes searching his--eyes with more lines around them now than there had been so many years ago, but no less beautiful. “Of course it would terrify you to think you couldn’t anymore.”

 

“You can still fight,” Natasha said. She shifted closer to him, leaning into his shoulder--a comforting weight. “You could be ninety and leaning on a walker and I’d still back you in a fight, Clint. But--” She smiled, comforting and deadly. “If it turns out you can’t, Barton, that’s what I’m here for. You fight until you can’t anymore--”

 

“And then you get someone else to do it for you,” Clint finished for her. It was an old joke between them, half-sarcastic when they’d started it, but there had always been an honest weight to it. He leaned over, resting his head on her shoulder, and she folded her arms around him, tight and strong. He didn’t let go of Laura’s hand and she didn’t loosen her grip, and he let himself shake between them, acknowledging the insecurity and fear and shame that had been building in him for weeks. With his spare hand, he curled his fingers into the hem of Natasha’s tank top. “Nat?” She made a questioning sound, and he closed his eyes. “Stay a while, yeah? ‘Til I feel like I can fight again?”

 

Natasha’s lips brushed his cheek, then his temple. “I’m not going anywhere, Clint Barton,” she said. He felt her lift her head slightly, and knew without looking that she was meeting Laura’s eyes. “Not anytime soon.”

 

**2000**

 

Laura pulls tin foil off of another pan of baked chicken, letting the oven-fresh heat and sweet-smelling spices wash over her. The warmth soothes some of the soreness from her red-rimmed eyes and nose and she sighs, tucking her hair behind her ear and straightening her back to pick up the pan and carry it out to the dining room. She sets it on the table, pulling the oven mitts off her hands and setting a pair of serving utensils into the pan. A middle-aged woman Laura is mostly sure she’s not related to smiles kindly at her and holds out her hand for the oven mitts, offering to bring them back to the kitchen for her, but Laura declines. Fussing in the kitchen gives her the opportunity to stay mostly out of sight of the mourners gathering in her grandparents’ old farmhouse, and lets her dissolve into occasional fits of tears without worrying about who might judging her for it.

 

She’s back in the kitchen, wondering if she should put up another pot of coffee, when her mother comes around the corner from the living room, looking slightly breathless. “Lola, baby,” she begins, and then stops, her features going from anxious to concerned. “Oh, honey,” she says, holding out her arms. “Still crying?”

 

“I’m trying to stop,” Laura says, laying her head on her mother’s shoulder, sniffling. “My eyes just keep leaking.”

 

“That’s okay, sweetheart. You and Poppy were close. You cry as much as you want and don’t listen to a word those old biddies from Nonny’s church mutter. They gossip because they don’t have anything better to do.” She squeezes Laura tight, and Laura closes her eyes, allowing herself to be slightly smothered. Living in New York means her mother’s hugs are few and far-between, but she wishes it was something other than her grandfather’s death bringing her those hugs now.

 

She lets herself snuggle into her mother’s embrace for a few more moments, then drags her head up, wiping her eyes and mentally congratulating herself for not utterly bursting into tears. “Sorry,” she says, pushing her hair back. “Did you need me for something before you came in and I was a gross mess?”

 

Her mother makes a scoffing sound, licking her finger and brushing what’s almost certainly smudged mascara from the corner of Laura’s eye. “You are no such thing,” she says. “And yes. There’s a, ah, rather battered young man on the front porch who says he knows you.”

 

Laura feels her heart leap into her throat. “What?”

 

“Nearly gave Mrs. Roberts a heart attack,” her mother says dryly. “He looks an awful mess. I thought maybe he was one of your friends from New York, since he seems like a bit of the rougher type--”

 

Laura doesn’t hear whatever she says next, because she’s already moving, running for the front door. She flies out onto the porch, paying no attention to the squawks of the church ladies she’s passing, and skids to a stop. “ _Clint_ ,” she breathes.

 

He’s standing by the porch steps, leaning slightly against the railing, not casually but heavily, as if he’s not quite sure if his legs can hold him up. There’s a bandage taped over his cheekbone and bruising along the other side of his face, and he’s holding himself gingerly, like he doesn’t want too much pressure on any one part of his body. He’s wearing a black suit and tie, slightly rumpled, and she can tell immediately that he must have traveled in them, not changed after getting off the plane.

 

Still, his exhausted face breaks into a smile when he sees her. “Hey, babe.”

 

She hears the sob that comes out of her mouth more than she feels it, and flings herself off the step and into his arms. He catches her with a slightly pained grunt, his arms coming around her back, and she pulls back on impact. “Sorry,” she says, “Sorry, I’m sorry, are you hurt? Where are you hurt?”

 

“I’m okay,” he says, kissing her. “Go easy on the ribs, but I’m okay.”

 

“And Natasha’s okay?” It seems strange to ask, especially since she’s pretty sure that he wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t, but something must have put that hollow look into his eyes.

 

He nods. “Natasha’s okay,” he says. “Do you want the rest of your hug?”

 

“I really, really do,” she admits, and he wraps her up in his arms, holding her tight as she twines her arms around his neck. She finds herself crying again, really, really crying the way she hasn’t since she got the news that Poppy was dead. Her tears have been trickling almost nonstop since, but these exhausting, wracking sobs had mostly faded away. They come back with a vengeance now, and she’s glad to be able to bury her face in the solid mass of Clint’s shoulder. She hasn’t seen him in two months and hasn’t heard from him in three weeks, and had just begun seriously to panic when her mother had called to tell her about her grandfather. She’d managed to leave another message on Clint’s machine before getting on a plane, telling him the funeral arrangements and where he could find her, but hadn’t held out much hope that he’d get it.

 

But now he’s _here_ , and he’s all in one piece and he’s as strong and steady as he always has been for her. She clings to him and he murmurs soft, soothing nothings into her ear, holding her tight and letting her cry.

 

By the time her tears die down again, she realizes with a jolt that they’ve moved without her knowing it. They’re on the porch swing now, Clint’s arms still securely around her as she’s curled up in his lap. She doesn’t have the energy to be mortified over how many gossipy ladies probably saw her breakdown, and just rests her head against Clint’s shoulder, sniffling as she gets her breathing back under control. “Okay,” she says finally. “I feel like that was embarrassing.”

 

“It really was,” Clint says, gently teasing, as if he’s not sure if it’s okay yet. “I can’t take you anywhere.” She swats half-heartedly at his arm, and he chuckles, kissing her forehead. “Hey,” he says. “I’m really sorry about your grandpa.”

 

Laura feels her eyes prickle again, but she seems to be out of tears for now. “He was old,” she says. “And it was his time. But we were close. I loved him a lot.” She sniffs, and pushes her hair back. “He was the one who encouraged me to go out to New York for my Master’s, actually.”

 

“Yeah?” He leans his head against hers. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet him.”

 

Laura snorts. “I don’t know if he would have loved you or hated you.”

 

“I like to think I’m pretty lovable,” Clint says, waggling his eyebrows at her. She’s not sure why, but it makes her laugh.

 

“Laura?”

 

She snaps her head up at the sound of her father’s voice. He’s standing by the door, tall and solemn in his dark suit, shoulders military-straight. “Daddy,” she gasps, and then tries to collect herself, scrambling off Clint’s lap and catching him in the ribs with her elbow in her efforts. He grunts in pain and gets to his feet far more smoothly than she does. “Hi.”

 

Her father arches one eyebrow. “Who’s your friend?”

 

“This is Clint,” she begins, but Clint is already extending one hand.

 

“Clint Barton, sir.”

 

“Ah. The famous Clint. Or infamous, I should say.” Her father clasps Clint’s hand, and Laura knows, _knows_ that he’s digging his fingers into Clint’s. She resists the urge to roll her eyes. “I’m Calvin Walker.”

 

Clint holds his ground, calm and firm. “Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m sorry for your loss.”

 

Laura steps up beside him and slips her hand into Clint’s free one. “Daddy,” she says. “I know you want to do the alpha-male father inquisition, but...can it wait? Til another day?”

 

Her father looks at her, and his face softens. Laura very intentionally doesn’t pump her fist in victory, but it does pay off to be her father’s only girl. He turns his gaze back to Clint. “You treat my little girl right, Barton?”

 

Clint nods, and his face is honest and sure. “She’s one of the best things that’s ever happened to me,” he says. “And I don’t deserve her.”

 

Her father snorts. “Well, as long as you know it.” He drops Clint’s hand. “We’ll continue this at another time,” he says, and then looks at Laura. “Don’t stay outside too long, or your mother’ll start to fuss that you haven’t eaten.”

 

Laura nods. “Yes, Daddy,” she says. She tiptoes up to kiss her father’s cheek, and he drops a peck to her forehead before turning inside with one last, narrow-eyed look at Clint. She turns to him. “That went okay, I thought.”

 

Clint looks vaguely horrified. “I haven’t had to meet a girl’s dad since I was fifteen,” he says. “At least then I wasn’t in a wrinkled suit.” He pauses. “Also, I think I may be bleeding, and should probably sit down.”

 

“Oh, Clint,” she says, exasperated and fond and so in love she doesn’t know whether to strangle him or kiss him, and pulls him inside.

 

**2015**

 

After a quiet dinner and a less-than-quiet movie, Natasha helped Clint get both kids into pajamas and supervised their timed toothbrushing while Laura took Nate for his last meal of the night. She knew he didn’t need her there, but she found herself wanting to be close to him, watching the lines of his face for any sign of the insecurity she had seen earlier. He seemed to have relaxed since the afternoon’s near-panic attack, playfully negotiating Lila’s bedtime braids while coaxing Cooper into leaving his tablet downstairs instead of trying to sneak it into his bed with him.

 

They ended up in Lila’s room, Clint half-buried under both kids and reading to them from _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone_. Lila was under the blankets, curled into Clint’s left side with her arm around a her floppy, threadbare teddy bear and her thumb in her mouth, while Cooper was on top of the covers on Clint’s other side, his toes tucked under the quilt at the bottom of the bed to keep them warm. Clint looked calm and peaceful, the last of the afternoon’s nauseous fear seeming to have finally left him, and Natasha felt relaxed enough to kiss both kids goodnight and head into the master bedroom in search of Laura.

 

The lights had been dimmed and she could see Nate asleep in his crib in the corner of the room, and Natasha automatically checked on him, looking for the rise and fall of his chest. Satisfied to see it, she called softly, “Laura?”

 

“Bathtub,” came the answer from the en suite.

 

Amused and unsurprised, Natasha crossed the room and tapped her fingers against the door. “Decent?”

 

“Buried under bubbles, if that’ll suffice.”

 

“It does.” Natasha pushed the door open and stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind her, then stopped in her tracks.

 

Baths had always been Laura’s biggest vice. When they’d moved into the farmhouse over a decade ago, Clint’s first renovation project had been putting in the master bathroom and making sure Laura had the most luxurious bathtub in the house, complete with jets, plenty of space on the sides for candles and wine, and a built-in speaker system for playing soft music. Now, Laura had her hair piled on top of her head, a few tendrils loose and flying around her face, and was reclining back in a sea of sweet-scented bubbles, a mug of tea at her side and a number of large purple candles lit around her. She looked, Natasha couldn’t help thinking, absolutely stunning.

 

Laura arched one eyebrow. “Cat got your tongue, Nat?”

 

Natasha shook her head, stepping further into the room and folding the toilet seat down to perch herself on it. “No. I just can’t remember the last time I saw you looking so comfortable.”

 

Laura smiled. “I don’t get to, very often.” She tucked a few flyaway wisps of hair behind her ear, leaving a streak of bubbles in the wake of her fingers--Natasha resisted the urge to smile--and tilted her head slightly. “Where’s the rest of the crew?”

 

“Storytime with Daddy,” Natasha said, crossing one leg over the other and resting her chin in her palm. “Cooper’ll probably crash there, I doubt he’ll make it back to his own bed.”

 

“Clint will bring him, if he doesn’t fall asleep himself.” Laura paused. “Which he might. It was a rough day.”

 

“Mm.” Natasha sobered slightly. “Had he talked to you about that? Before?”

 

“Only a bit.” Laura pulled her knees up, the tips of them appearing through the sea of bubbles. “When you were all here, I said something about--about what the rest of the team was like, and he asked me if I thought they didn’t need him. I told him that you did, but…” She shook her head. “He might have taken it to heart.”

 

Natasha felt a sudden chill, strange in the warm, humid air of the bathroom. “I told him something like that,” she said, remembering those moments in the Tower, Clint on his side with Helen Cho’s machine putting him back together. “Joked that pretending to need him was a full-time job.” She’d said it because she was shaken and scared and needed the humor to keep the lingering terror of those moments in the Sokovian snow at bay, and had thought Clint’s pained, exhausted smile meant he’d understood. Maybe she’d been wrong. “I didn’t realize. I should have. Being the only unenhanced human on the team...Of course he’d been worrying.”

 

“You can’t blame yourself for that,” Laura said gently. “Clint’s been fighting his own demons all his life, and he’s managed to come up on top so far. This is just one more thing he’ll have to conquer, and all we can do is get him through it.”

 

Natasha toyed with the slim gold chain at her neck, running the point of the arrow pendant against her fingers. She’d put it on after her afternoon shower, pulling it out of the inside pocket of her duffle where it had sat since long before the first trip to Sokovia, when she’d first decided to pursue Bruce and had wanted to avoid any questions of symbolism. It felt right to put it back on here, surrounded by Clint and Laura and the children, feeling like part of a family again. “He’s going to fight back,” she said, curling the chain around her fingertips. “If there’s anything Clint hates, it’s being helped.”

 

Laura shrugged, her shoulders briefly visible above the bubbles before disappearing again. “Never stopped us before.”

 

Natasha couldn’t help chuckling at that. “True enough.” She stretched, arching her back to get the full range of muscle movement. “I’ll get him up and working in the morning, get some life back into those muscles. Time for the Amazing Hawkeye to come out of retirement.”

 

Laura shuddered. “Do _not_ start calling him that,” she said. “You know we’ll never hear the end of it.”

 

“I know.” Natasha grinned, fond and despairing. “I’ll never understand how someone can have such a huge ego while having his self-esteem in a literal pit.”

 

“He has a very specific skill set,” Laura said dryly, picking up her mug of tea with soapy hands. “It’s one of the reasons why we love him.”

 

She hesitated then, as if she wasn’t sure she’d said the right thing, looking at Natasha over the rim of her mug. Natasha bit her lip, unable to keep from smiling. As much as _love is for children_ remained seared into her mind and heart, she’d long since given up trying to deny the depths of the feelings she had for Clint, Laura, and the kids. “Among others,” she said. She eyed Laura’s soapy hands, the trail of suds running down her neck, over her collarbone, and into the water. “Such as his excellent taste in women.”

 

Laura laughed, low and smooth. “I’ll agree with that,” she said. Natasha smiled, climbing to her feet. She bent down to kiss Laura’s cheek, and Laura smiled at her. “Leaving?”

 

“Mm,” Natasha confirmed, hoping her reluctance didn’t show on her face. “I want to make sure Clint hasn’t crashed.”

 

“Good luck with that,” Laura said, looking up at her, her expression almost thoughtful. “You know, Nat, for a second, it almost looked like you were going to climb in here with me.”

 

Natasha paused. _Caught_ , she thought. _I should know better by now_. She met Laura’s gaze, utterly unsurprised to find Laura’s features shifting from thoughtful to mischievous. “I was thinking of it,” she admitted, because lying to Laura had never gotten her anywhere. “But not tonight.” Unable to resist temptation, though, she added, “Maybe next time.”

 

Laura smiled, a wicked glint in her eye. “Careful,” she said, leaning forward slightly in the tub. “I might just hold you to that.”

 

“I’m sure you will,” Natasha said. She made to straighten up, but Laura caught one soapy finger in the chain around Natasha’s neck and tugged her gently back down, brushing her lips against Natasha’s cheek. She miscalculated the angle, though-- _or did she?_ Natasha thought, a bit wildly--and her lips caught Natasha’s instead, the pressure firm but gentle. It was a chaste kiss, warm and sweet, but it sent a jolt of electric energy through her, making her want to lean closer when she knew she should really pull away.

 

When they finally parted, there were bubbles in Natasha’s hair, and half of the tea in Laura’s mug had slopped over into the tub. “Okay,” Natasha said, clearing her throat. “Now I’m going to go check on Clint and the kids.”

 

Laura smiled, showing all of her teeth. “You do that,” she said, settling back against the edge of the tub with remained of her tea, as smoothly as if they’d merely finished a casual conversation. “I’ll be here.”

 

Natasha straightened up to her feet. “You know,” she said dryly, “You really missed a career opportunity. You could have made a great Black Widow.”

 

Laura laughed, light and unfettered, too genuine and easy for Natasha’s joke to ever really be true. “I’m a Jill of all trades,” she said, lifting one foot out of the tub and gesturing toward the door with her toes. “Go. I’ll see you when you come to bed.”

 

Natasha raised her eyebrows, one hand on the doorknob. “Will you, now?”

 

Laura tilted her head to one side, her brown eyes warm and sparkling. “Unless you were planning to sleep somewhere else?”

 

Hook, line, and sinker, Natasha thought, shaking her head. “No,” she said, and couldn’t have stopped her smile if she’d wanted to. “No, I really wasn’t.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings, this chapter: reference to canon-compliant forced sterilization; non-explicit reference to child physical and sexual abuse; description of panic attack symptoms, including nausea and near-vomiting
> 
> Thank you all _so much_ for sticking with this fic, despite my long absence. Real life came out of nowhere with all sorts of drama (nothing life-threatening, just busy!) and my fic-writing time was dramatically reduced. I am hoping, hoping, _hoping_ that updates will be approximately bi-weekly from this point on. Anyone who would like to occasionally poke and encourage me is welcome to throw sticks at me via my tumblr account, [geniusorinsanity](http://geniusorinsanity.tumblr.com).
> 
> Very special thanks go out to [Deb](http://debz0rz.tumblr.com/) for continuing to beta read for me after all these years of reading my angst, and to [nathanielbarton](http://nathanielbarton.tumblr.com/) for making the amazing gifsets for the [first](http://nathanielbarton.tumblr.com/post/121432485640/nor-need-we-power-or-splendor-by-shellybelle) [two](http://nathanielbarton.tumblr.com/post/124341717925/nor-need-we-power-or-splendor-chapter-2-by) chapters, which filled me with absolute giddy glee and totally spurred me to write faster. Thank you thank you thank you! :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Managed to get a chapter posted in under a month, woo! This one's quite th beastie, but it's got some bits a lot of you have been looking forward to. Hope it's worth the wait. 
> 
> See end of chapter notes for content warnings.

**2000**

 

“Clint,” Laura says, somehow  managing to be gentle and chiding at once, “Stop fidgeting.”

 

“I’m not fidgeting,” Clint says automatically, but he knows he’s been twisting his fingers around the gearshift since they got within twenty miles of Laura’s family’s house.

 

Laura reaches over and takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. “You’ve already met them,” she says. “They’re not so scary.”

 

“The last time I met them was at a funeral,” Clint reminds her, glancing at the road signs and flicking the signal on to get off the freeway. “They weren’t really focused on me.”

 

“Believe me, they would have managed. I still got grilled on you.” Laura leans forward. “Here, take this street.”

 

Clint takes the turn. “I guess I’m just…” He sighs. “You’re so _normal_ , Laura.”

 

“Thanks a lot.”

 

“Oh, shut up, you know what I mean. You _function_. Your family is normal. Your mom’s a high school principal, for god’s sake.” He follows Laura’s pointing finger and pulls into the driveway leading up to a comfortable-looking two-story colonial. “How are they possibly going to be okay with your ex-carnie security contractor boyfriend who never made it past middle school?”

 

He turns off the car, going to open his door so as to avoid looking at laura in the wake of that tirade of self-deprecation, but Laura puts a hand on his arm and stops him. “Hey,” she says gently. “None of that stuff matters, Clint. What they care about is that you love me and I love you, and you treat me right.”

 

“I like to think I do,” Clint says, and Laura smiles, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

 

“You do,” she says. “Now, come on. Mom always makes pumpkin chocolate chip cookies the night before Thanksgiving, and I want at least one before the boys descend on them.”

 

True to Laura’s word, neither of her parents greet Clint with disdain or horror, despite the lingering bruises still visible on his face and the half-healed scabs on his knuckles. Her mother folds him into a bear hug that makes him wince (stitches across his ribs and back) and proceeds to rescue a plate of cookies from her three sons and push it into his very confused hands. Laura’s father shakes his hand gruffly and asks about the trip, then goes back to trussing the turkey for tomorrow’s dinner. Clint relaxes slightly, hoping he’s dodged any fatherly interrogation-related horror, and sets himself to trying to match faces to the names and stories Laura has given him about her brothers.

 

After dinner, though, as Clint is moving to help Laura’s mother clean up, Cal walker puts a hand on his shoulder. “Come sit with me, Clint,” he says, his tone light but leaving no room for argument.

 

Clint shoots Laura a slightly frantic look that she returns with a cheerful smile, and follows Laura’s father into the warmly-lit study off the living room. Book-filled shelves line the walls, looming over the leather armchairs in the center of the room. A large wooden desk sits by the window, straightened and organized with military-level precision.

 

He remembers, belatedly and with a twist in his gut, that Laura’s father is a retired Air Force Colonel. Oh, he thinks. This is bad.

 

Cal points Clint toward one of the armchairs and crosses to the bar cart by the wall. “What’s your drink of choice, Clint?”

 

Clint clears his throat, uncomfortable in the smooth leather chair. “Dealer’s choice, sir,” he says. “Don’t drink so much that I’ve got a preference.”

 

Cal pours two glasses of an amber liquor from a glass decanter that makes Clint supremely nervous with its fanciness and turns back to Clint, arching one eyebrow. “Not much of a drinker?”

 

Clint takes the offered glass, glad to have something in his hands. “My old man was,” he says carefully. “I didn’t want to follow his example.”

 

“Huh.” Cal sits down in the other chair, regarding Clint with serious dark eyes--the same shape and color as Laura’s, but without the familiar twinkle that always makes Clint feel utterly comfortable. “Your old man still around?”

 

“No, sir. He and my mother passed when I was a kid. Car accident.” He leaves out the details.

 

“Sorry to hear that.” Cal takes a sip of his drink, and Clint takes that as a signal that he can do the same. It’s a bourbon, nutty and smooth, tingling all the way down. “Any other family?”

 

Clint shrugs. “Got a brother. We check in now and then, let each other know we’re both still kicking. We’re not close.”

 

Cal nods, watching Clint over the rim of his glass. “You served in the military?”

 

Clint doesn’t bother asking how he knows that. “Yes, sir. Three years.”

 

“What branch?”

 

“Army.”

 

Cal makes a calculating sound. “Special ops?” Clint does look sharply up at that, narrowing his eyes, and Cal nods, smiling in a way that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve got the look. Sniper, if I had to guess.” His smile fades. “Discharged?” Unable to figure out what to say, Clint nods. “Honorably?”

 

Clint winces. “No, sir. They kicked me out when they figured out I was lying about my age. Got in when I was fifteen.”

 

That actually seems to catch Cal off-guard. “You were running sniper ops when you were fifteen?”

 

Clint shrugs. “I’m a good shot.”

 

“I see.” Cal eyes him as if he’s trying to determine if Clint’s armed. Clint tries to look like he isn’t (he is), turning his glass in his hands. “And what is it you do now? Laura says you’re a…security contractor?”

 

“Yes, sir. Acquisitions and risk management.”

 

Cal puts his drink down and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Laura might not know what that’s code for, son, but I spent forty years in the Air Force. You want to let me know why I should let my little girl run around with a glorified thief and killer?”

 

So that’s how it is, Clint thinks. He drops the subservient farm-boy boyfriend facade and downs the rest of his drink, leaning forward to mirror Cal’s posture with his own. “First of all,” he says, “No one _lets_ Laura do anything. She’s a grown woman who makes her own choices, even though _my_ blood pressure would sure as hell be lower if she took a job outside of Crown Heights.

 

“Second of all,” he continues, not giving Laura’s father a chance to speak, “I am damn good at what I do. I’m picky about my jobs, and I don’t work for the highest bidder, I work for people I trust. Good people. No one pulls my strings or calls my shots except me. Laura might not know exactly what I do, but she’s not an idiot. She knows it’s dangerous; she knows people get hurt. She trusts me anyway. I’ve never given her a reason not to, and I don’t plan to start.”

 

Cal looks at him. His expression is thoughtful and evaluating, but there’s more respect in it than there was before. After a moment, he says, “You love my daughter, Barton?”

 

It’s not the response Clint’s expecting, but he doesn’t let any of that show on his face. “Yes,” he says, and means it with every fiber of his being. “Yes, I do.”

 

Cal’s face doesn’t change, and Clint wonders what he must look like, twenty-nine, battered and bruised, gun and bowstring callouses clear on his hands for anyone who would know to look. But he knows Cal’s been watching him all night, too, has seen Laura’s smile every time Clint brushes her hair back, seen Clint relax whenever Laura touches his hand. “I believe you, Clint,” he says, though none of the tension leaves his face. “But people in your line of work make enemies.”

 

“With all due respect, sir, so do people in yours.” Clint has done his own homework--he knows Colonel Calvin Walker, Retired, has been working as a private consultant for multiple aeronomic engineering firms, including assisting in the development of new stealth plane technology. He’s put Laura in as much danger as Clint has. Still, Clint knows what he’s asking. “I keep her safe, sir,” he says softly.

 

“And if you can’t?”

 

Clint smiles wryly, thinking of the arguments he’d had with Natasha, who had asked the same thing, over and over until he’d finally realized that she was waiting for him to ask her to be his backup--to trust her with something as precious as Laura’s safety when he couldn’t trust himself. “Then I call for someone who can.”

 

Cal opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, the door to the study opens and Laura pokes her head inside. “Daddy,” she says, “Mom says that if you’re done terrorizing Clint, she needs help in the kitchen.”

 

My hero, Clint mouths at her. Laura looks as if she’s trying very hard not to smile as Cal gets to his feet. “Yes, I’m done,” he says, eyeing Clint for a moment longer before giving him a short, approving nod. “This is quite an interesting young man you’ve found yourself, Lola.”

 

Laura smiles at Clint, then up at her father. “Does that mean you approve?”

 

Cal chuckles. “You could certainly do worse,” he says, and kisses Laura’s cheek before leaving the room.

 

Clint slumps down in his chair. “That,” he announces once the door closes, “Was the scariest thing I’ve done in years.”

 

Laura snorts, coming to sit on his lap. “Weren’t you disarming bombs in Afghanistan last year?”

 

“Yep.”

 

She shakes her head, looking amused. “You certainly have a strange threshold for fear, Barton,” she says finally. “Is there anything scarier than talking to my father?”

 

“Yes,” Clint says, lifting his head from where he’s nestled it into her shoulder to look up at her. “Losing you.”

 

Laura’s expression softens. “Well,” she says, looping her arms comfortably around his neck. “That, my favorite walking disaster, is never going to happen.” She kisses his cheek and climbs off his lap, pulling him with her. “Now, come on. I want to show you how to make the famous Walker pumpkin pie.”

 

She tugs him from the room, and Clint, unable to do anything else (and not wanting to, anyway), follows.

 

**2015**

 

Clint, to his credit, didn’t fall asleep in Lila’s bed, though it was a close call. He managed, slowly and carefully, to maneuver out from under the kids without waking either of them, and then gathered Cooper up in his arms. Coop made a slightly grumpy sound, turning his head into Clint’s shoulder the same way he had as a baby, and Clint chuckled quietly, kissing the top of his head and walking him next door to tuck him into his own bed.

 

He doubled back to turn off Lila’s light and ease her door shut, then slipped down the hall and into the master bedroom, stretching his neck as he moved. He could lift either of the kids easily enough when they were awake and cooperating, but a deadweight sleeping Cooper was getting to be a little much. Something in his gut wrenched when he thought about that--pretty soon, Coop would be too big for him to carry at all.

 

“You’ve got a face on,” Laura said when he entered the room. “What’s the face for?”

 

“This is just my face,” Clint protested automatically, closing the door behind him and giving Laura an appreciative look. She was sitting on the bed in a towel, the terrycloth hitched up high enough to expose most of her legs, and her hair hung damp and wavy over her shoulders. “You look like you enjoyed yourself. Good bath?”

 

“Excellent bath. Don’t change the subject, that’s not your normal face.” She narrowed her eyes at him, crossing one leg over the other, which did not, in Clint’s opinion, make her any less distracting. “Are you still moping about being old?”

 

Clint snorted. “No. Thanks for the sensitivity, though.” He pulled his t-shirt over his head, tossing it into the hamper without bothering to look or aim, and rummaged around in his dresser for a clean one to sleep in. “I was just thinking about how big Cooper’s getting.”

 

Laura’s face softened at that. “Ah.” She brushed her hair back. “I notice that, too. He’s grown past my shoulders now, did you see?” She shook her head, looking past him to Nate’s crib with a soft, wistful expression. “It’s so strange to look at Nate and think that Cooper could have ever been that small.”

 

“We’ve got the pictures to prove it,” Clint said, stripping off his jeans and, mindful of the way Laura’s gaze could go sharp in an instant, folding them and putting them on the dresser to be worn again tomorrow instead of tossing them onto the floor.

 

“Pictures? I’ve got the stretch marks to prove it.”

 

Clint plopped down onto the bed beside her, leaning down to kiss her knee. “You’ve got tiger stripes,” he mumbled against her skin, inhaling the lavender-soap scent of her. “You earned every one.”

 

“Mm.” Laura’s fingers came down to toy gently with his hair. “I did, at that.” Clint nuzzled her thigh with his nose, and she clicked her tongue, chiding playfully. “Hey. Six weeks, mister.”

 

“I know, I know.” He rolled to sit up, pushing his hair back and giving her a rueful grin. “On the subject of unending patience, where’s Nat, anyway?”

 

Laura chuckled at the transition. “She went to get changed in her room. I think she wanted a few minutes of peace and quiet.” She looked briefly guilty. “I may have...nudged her a little.”

 

“Nudged?” Clint narrowed his eyes. “Laura Walker Barton, what did you do to the flighty assassin?”

 

“Nothing so scary,” Laura said, waving a hand dismissively. “I just smooched her a little.”

 

“Laura,” Clint complained, and was about to give Laura one of her own patented Do Not Push The Flighty Assassin with Intimacy Issues speeches when Natasha slipped into the room. “Oh. Hi, Nat.”

 

“Look guiltier, Barton,” Natasha said dryly, closing the door behind her. She had changed from a pair of her own leggings and one of Clint’s flannels to a pair of Clint’s old boxer shorts and one of his t-shirts.

 

Clint made a face at her. “Didn’t you pack your own clothes?”

 

She shrugged. “Yours were more comfortable,” she said, padding across the room and draping herself casually onto the bed with a comfort and ease that made Clint’s stomach flip. “I assume your wife was telling you that she was putting the moves on me?”

 

“Why is she always my wife when she’s in trouble?” Clint asked the ceiling.  


Laura laughed, leaning over to kiss his cheek and getting to her feet. She headed over to her own dresser, and Clint didn’t bother averting his gaze as she let her towel fall so that she could slip on a tank top and underwear. He did glance at Natasha, and caught her red-handed (red-eyed?) looking over the curves of Laura’s hips and waist with an attraction she didn’t even bother to hide. She met Clint’s gaze a moment later and gave him a guilty smile. He waggled his eyebrows at her, and she snorted a laugh. Laura turned back around, hanging her towel on the peg by the closet, and looked at them in amusement. “What?”

 

“Nat thinks you’re sexy,” Clint said, earning a smack to the chest from Natasha. He feigned intense pain and flopped back onto the mattress.

 

She rolled her eyes. “Clint is incapable of stating the obvious.”

 

Laura seemed to consider this, pulling an elastic off her wrist and twining her hair into a loose braid. “You can both be right,” she said. “Scoot over, Clint, you’re middle tonight.”

 

Clint didn’t bother arguing, just shifted closer to Natasha so that Laura could lie down with them. “‘M not sleepy, though.”

 

“Tough,” Laura drawled, pushing him down onto the pillows. “Because I am. Nat?”

 

“Exhausted.” Natasha flicked her fingers against the elbow Clint was using to prop himself up until he rolled his eyes and flopped down, shooting her a _happy now?_ look. She smiled at him, showing all her teeth, and then looked up at Laura with a far less terrifying smile. “Maybe put on a book or something?”

 

Laura nodded, already scrolling through her phone. Clint reached over and poked her hip. “Something funny,” he mumbled into the pillow. Sandwiched between them, his previous nervous energy was fading away under the soft scents of Laura’s lavender soap and Natasha’s jasmine body lotion. They were familiar smells, warm and comforting, and he let himself relax into the mattress.

 

Gentle fingers smoothed through his hair, and then settled down to scritch the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Natasha, he thought; Laura’s favorite spot was higher up on his head. He reached a hand out without lifting his head and patted her leg; heard her soft answering chuckle. “Go to bed, Clint,” she said, her voice fond and kind, and he did.

 

**2001**

 

Laura’s drinking tea and flipping through design magazines for classroom inspiration when her phone rings. She and Kelsey have a silent staring contest until Kelsey rolls her eyes and gets off the couch to answer the phone. “Hello?”

 

She listens for a moment. “Just a minute,” she says, and holds out the phone for Laura. “It’s for you.”

 

Laura makes a face but holds out a hand for the cordless phone. “This is Laura,” she says.

 

The voice on the other end of the line is female and smooth, but with a hint of hoarseness to it. “I’m calling about Clint Barton.”

 

Laura feels the bottom of her stomach drop out. “Is he okay?”

 

“He’s at Columbia Medical Center under the name Aaron Cross. ICU. You should leave now to get here before he goes back into surgery. They’ll be expecting you at the desk.”

 

The line goes dead, and for a moment Laura can only stare at the receiver, frozen. “Laura?” Kelsey asks, concern clear in her voice. “Everything okay?”

 

It takes Laura a few seconds to find her voice. “My boyfriend’s hurt.”

 

“Jesus, honey, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Kelsey takes the phone out of Laura’s limp hand and cups Laura’s face in her hands. “Are you okay?”

 

Laura blinks a few times, then shakes her head to clear it. “I’m--yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. I need to get over to Columbia.” She pushes the blanket off her shoulders and gets to her feet, trying to find her shoes. “Can you find my purse?”

 

She’s out the door and on the street in five minutes, hailing a cab because her head is swimming too quickly to figure out the subway. “Columbia Medical,” she says breathlessly as she slides into the backseat. “Quickly, please, it’s an emergency.”

 

The driver snorts. “It’s New York, sweetheart,” he says, pulling away from the curb. “We’ll get there when we get there.”

 

She must look pathetic, or the universe is acting in her favor, because they make it from Brooklyn Heights to Columbia in just under forty minutes, and Laura still spends the entire ride biting her nails and trying to calm her breathing. She fumbles cash out of her purse and hands it to the driver, probably tipping way too much but too flustered to care.

 

A friendly woman at the reception desk gives Laura calm directions to the critical care unit, and then, when Laura starts to wander in the wrong direction, gently takes her arm and guides her to the unit herself while Laura tries (and fails) to pull herself together. “Here you are, love,” the receptionist says, depositing Laura outside a private room. “Nurse’s station is just down the hall, you can call them if you need anything.”

 

She squeezes Laura’s arm again, and leaves her. Laura stands in front of the closed door, taking deep breaths, and trying to brace herself for whatever she might see when she opens the door.

 

Before she can reafor the handle, though, the door opens from the inside and reveals a woman who looks to be about Laura’s age. She is, Laura thinks immediately, stunningly beautiful, despite the fact that her eyes are red-rimmed and her face is pale, and she’s wearing a slightly lumpy sweater and loose-fitting jeans rolled at the cuffs. Auburn-red hair falls in loose waves over her shoulders, and her green eyes meet Laura’s and shift from guarded protectiveness to recognition, as if she’s seen Laura somewhere before.

 

The penny drops, and Laura’s panic and fear for Clint is briefly overshadowed by the sudden slaking of a long-held curiosity. “Natasha,” she breathes. “You’re Natasha.”

  
Natasha’s lips twitch into a thin smile. “Laura,” she says, her voice tired but still somehow honey-smooth. “Nice to finally meet you. Sorry about the circumstances.”

 

Her tone is tinged with forced lightness but Laura can’t care, because her gaze has shifted past Natasha and into the room, where Clint lies pale and unmoving in the bed, surrounded by a tower of humming, beeping machines. Seeing him like this makes her heart clench, as if a cold fist has wrapped around it and squeezed _hard_. She’s seen Clint after his jobs before, bandaged and stitched and casted and wincing, but always far enough out that he can joke through his grimaces, tell her stories tinged with humor and adventure--never like this, in the immediate aftermath, vulnerable and quiet and so terrifyingly, horribly still. “God,” Laura whispers, wanting to rush to his side but feeling frozen to her spot. “What happened to him?”

 

“Job went south.” Natasha closes the door and steps past Laura, moving to the bed and reaching down to adjust the drape of the IV line running down into one of Clint’s bandaged arm. “Warehouse we were in exploded.”

 

Laura feels a vague bell ring at that. “In Harlem? That was you? It was on the news.”

 

“We were there,” Natasha corrects, turning to look at Laura and wincing slightly at the motion. Only then does Laura realize that it’s not Natasha’s sweater that’s lumpy, but that the bulges under the clothing must be bandages. Natasha, it seems, hadn’t left the job unscathed, either. “Clint got me out ahead of him.” She turns back to Clint, and her smile goes soft and fond and sad as she brushes his hair gently back from his forehead. “Always the hero.”

 

“Big _dumb_ hero,” Laura blurts out before she can stop herself, but Natasha snorts softly. Laura swallows hard and steels herself. “How bad is he hurt?”

 

“Badly.” Natasha lifts the chart from the end of the bed, flipping through it, though Laura is willing to bet that she doesn’t need the reference. “Shrapnel wounds on his limbs and torso, but those were mostly superficial, with the exception of two frag injuries, one to the lower abdomen, one to the leg. Both missed major arteries, but the blood loss was still severe. The overpressure injuries are the real worry--”

 

“Wait--” Laura takes a halting step forward, then stops again, unable to bring herself closer to Clint. “I don’t know what those words mean.”

 

Natasha glances at her, and her expression softens at whatever she sees on Laura’s face. “Of course. I’m sorry, I forget that you’re not...in our line of work. A fragmentation injury is caused by...flying debris, essentially. They’re penetration wounds. Overpressure injuries are caused by the shock waves generated by an explosion. Very dangerous to the brain and internal organs.”

 

Laura’s blood runs cold. “And he could have some of those?”

 

Natasha nods. “They did some initial exploratory surgery to assess the damage, but he kept coding. They’re going back in soon to try and repair it. They’re more worried about a potential brain injury, but they won’t know more about that unless he wakes up.”

 

“Until,” Laura says. Natasha looks sharply at her. “You said unless he wakes up. You meant until, right?”

 

Natasha’s full lips part slightly, and then she looks away, replacing Clint’s chart. “They’re going to come get him soon,” she says, not answering Laura’s question. “If there’s anything--” She clears her throat. “If you want to say something to him, you should. I’ll give you some time.”

 

She bends with a wince, picking up a leather messenger bag draped over the back of the chair beside the bed, and slings it over her shoulder. Not meeting Laura’s eyes, she slips past her toward the door, and then pauses with her hand on the knob. “He once told me to tell you that he loved you, if he couldn’t say it himself,” she says. Her voice is heavy with emotion, and Laura is glad, suddenly, that she’s not looking at her. “I just thought you should know that.”

 

The door opens and closes, and Laura is alone in the empty room, silent but for the beeping machines. She takes a few deep, steadying breaths and forces herself to walk forward, one foot in front of the other, until she makes it to the side of the bed.

 

Up close, Clint looks even worse, pale and drawn under the oxygen mask covering the lower half of his face. Laura thinks she should be glad, at least, that that means he’s breathing mostly on his own. She runs her fingers gently through his hair, following the lines left by Natasha’s fingers a few moments earlier, and feels her eyes burn. “You know, this really wasn’t how I wanted to meet her,” she whispers, swallowing the lump in her throat. “You idiot.”

 

Clint doesn’t respond--of course he doesn’t--and Laura bends her head, resting her forehead against his cool, clammy one. This close she can see dried blood in the inside of his ear, and feels another prickle of fear, remembering what Natasha said about brain injuries. “Stupid man,” she whispers, and kisses his cheek, trying desperately not to let her voice break. “Don’t you dare die, Clint Barton. I love you too fucking much.”

 

She hears the slight creak as the door opens. “I’m sorry, honey,” a friendly voice says, and Laura straightens quickly, turning to see a tall Black woman with kind, sympathetic features and teal scrubs looking at her from the doorway. “But we need to take him to surgery.”

 

Laura nods, not trusting her voice, and steps to the side so that the nurse and a crowd of others can flow into the room. There’s a flurry of activity, machines hooking and unhooking, stationary monitors switched out for portable, and then Laura is alone again, without even the soothing sound of the machines for company.

 

Natasha steps back into the room. “Laura,” she says quietly. Laura snaps her head back up to look at her, and finds Natasha looking back with an almost uncertain expression. “I’m going to the surgical waiting room,” she says. “We’ll get the fastest updates that way.” She hesitates, and then says, “Do you want to wait with me?”

 

She doesn’t. She wants to go home and crawl into bed and cry and fall asleep and wake up to find that this was a horrible dream, and that Clint is on his way to her with bruises on his face and a grin on his lips and another story about what a ridiculous adventure his latest job was. Instead, she hears herself say, “Yes, please, that would be good.” She walks the few steps to the doorway, and finds herself close enough to catch the scent of Natasha’s hair.

 

The soft jasmine smell rockets into her memory like a bullet, and suddenly she’s back in Clint’s shower for the first time, breathing in the scent of Natasha’s shampoo and wondering at the mysterious woman whose life she tangentially shares. She catches her breath, feeling overwhelmed by the weight of the realization that Natasha has shared Clint’s life even longer than she has, that the reddened rims of her eyes belie the calm, cool expression on her face. She wonders how long Natasha has been here in this hospital, and then, with a clench of her gut, wonders how many times Natasha has sat by Clint’s bedside, Laura’s phone number in her pocket--because she must have had it, but for how long?--unsure if this was the time she should call. She thinks of the icy fear that had gripped her at the threshold of this room, and shudders at the thought of facing it alone.

 

Natasha’s brow furrows slightly. “Laura?”

 

Her emotions well up and spill over, and Laura bursts into long-suppressed tears, throwing her arms around Natasha’s neck before she can think through the motion and stop herself. She buries her face in Natasha’s sweet-smelling hair and _sobs_.

 

A long minute passes--though Laura barely registers it, too busy gulping down air so she can keep crying--and then hesitant hands come up to rest on her back. An instant later, as if a dam has broken, the hands give way to strong arms, wrapping vice-tight around her, and she feels Natasha’s head come down against her shoulder as the other woman’s seemingly unflappable calm gives way to silent, shuddering tremors.

 

They stand there together, not speaking, and after a time not even crying anymore, just standing, trembling--two women, bound together by one man, holding each other tight, unwilling to let go.

 

**2001**

 

Clint pulls through, because he always does.

 

Natasha sits curled in the chair beside his bed, only half-pretending to read the book in her hands, too busy glancing up every now and then to watch the readouts on the machines to reassure herself that yes, he’s breathing, and yes, his brain is functioning, and yes, yes, yes, he’ll be okay.

 

Laura is asleep on the cot that a friendly set of nurses brought in a few hours ago, when it must have become clear to the staff that neither woman in Aaron Cross’s room was going to be removed without significant force. She looks young in her sleep, curled under the blanket Natasha draped over her shoulders, one hand stretched out towards Clint’s bed, close enough for her fingers to barely brush against the bedrail.

 

Natasha gives up pretending to read her book, slipping it into her bag and letting her attention focus in on on the other woman.

 

Clint has told her stories about Laura from the first night he’d met the girl, and Natasha has listened to the stories change in tone and content over the last five years. Despite that, Laura isn’t what she’d expected. She’s young and kind and, Natasha thinks with a tingle of embarrassment at the earlier display, full of emotions and free with showing them. The aftermath of the hug had been, to Natasha’s surprise, less uncomfortable than she’d expected, the two of them sitting together on the uncomfortable seats of the surgical waiting room, exchanging quiet stories about Clint. Laura was a woman who let her feelings show on her face, and Natasha had watched everything from wonder to worry to laughter to love flicker across her features.

 

She’s everything Clint had told her, yet somehow, completely different.

 

Laura stirs on the cot, and then stretches like a cat, sitting up and dislodging the blanket. She looks blearily around the room, her dark hair mussed and tangled around her shoulders, and her gaze settles on Natasha. “Oh,” she says. “How long was I asleep?”

 

Natasha glances at the clock--more for show than anything else; she has been counting the minutes since Clint came back from the surgical recovery wing. “A few hours,” she says. “How do you feel?”

 

“Stiff,” Laura says, rubbing her neck. “And thirsty.”

 

“You lost a lot of water when you were crying,” Natasha says. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a bottle of water, passes it across to her.

 

Laura takes it with a small, grateful smile. “Thank you,” she says, and shifts her eyes to Clint. “Any change?”

 

“No.” Natasha stretches out one hand and brushes her fingers over the backs of Clint’s, careful to avoid jostling the tubing of his IV. “Nothing yet,” she says, and then freezes.

 

Her touch has set off a chain reaction. Clint’s fingers twitch under hers, and a moment later the skin around his eyes crinkles slightly, and a soft groan leaves his lips.

 

Laura is on her feet in an instant, rushing to the other side of the bed. “Clint,” she says, curling her fingers into his other hand. “Clint? Baby?”

 

“Hit the call button,” Natasha hears herself say, and Laura fumbles for it, presses it down. She reaches out to brush her fingertips over Clint’s jaw, along the rim of the oxygen mask. “Come on, Barton,” she says softly. “Wake up for me.”

 

Clint’s hand shifts around hers, and a moment later, his eyes flutter open. His gaze settles on Natasha first and relief floods his features, and she exhales a prayer, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Nat,” he says, muffled under the mask, and then freezes.

 

Natasha pulls back. “Clint?” She can hear the alarm in her own voice. “What is it?”

 

He stares up at her, his grey-blue eyes wide with alarm. “I can’t hear.” He starts to struggle against the cords and wires keeping him in bed. “Nat, I can’t--”

 

“Clint!” Laura moves, faster than Natasha would have expected, putting herself clearly in Clint’s eyeline. “Clint, look at me. Look at me.”

 

Clint goes still, though Natasha suspects that it’s from shock more than comprehension. “Laura? What--”

 

“Look at me,” Laura says, moving her fingers as she speaks--ASL, Natasha realizes with a start, how does she know ASL?--and keeping her words clear and enunciated as she speaks. “You were in an explosion. There was a shock wave. There might be some damage to your hearing, but you can’t get up now. You had surgery. You’re hurt. We’ll get the doctor, but you need to stay here, okay? Will you stay here?”

 

Clint’s eyes have flickered back and forth between her hands and her lips. After a moment, and to Natasha’s surprise, he nods, his expression fearful and uncertain.

 

“Okay,” Laura breathes, and starts to turn. Clint’s hand darts out and closes around her wrist.

 

“Don’t go,” he says, a pleading note to his voice, and she stops, her expression softening.

 

“Okay.”

 

The nurse finally responds to the call button, and quickly sets herself to checking Clint’s vitals, shining a light in his eyes and snapping her fingers on each side of his head. Natasha feels her heart sink when no response comes. “Vitals are good,” the nurse says, smiling at Clint, who looks blankly up at her, fear clear in his eyes. Natasha rubs her thumb over his knuckles, as soothingly as she can. “Neuro response is normal. I’m going to get the doctor, Mr. Cross.” She glances back and forth between Laura and Natasha, smiles hesitantly at each of them, and leaves the room.

 

Natasha looks across the bed at Laura, who’s looking down at Clint with tender worry, her gaze fixed on his. “ASL?” she asks quietly.

 

“I have a cousin who’s deaf,” Laura says in the same tone, reaching out to gently stroke Clint’s hair, signing something at him that makes him relax slightly. “Everyone in my family knows it.”

 

“And Clint?” It makes her stomach clench to ask, to acknowledge that Laura might know something about Clint that she, Natasha, doesn’t.

 

Laura glances up at her. “He told me he learned it in the circus,” she says, her tone uncertain. “It seemed fishy, but I...I didn’t want to push.” She looks back down at Clint. “I guess it’s a good thing.”

 

Natasha tightens her fingers around Clint’s, forcing her expression to calm when his worried eyes flicker to hers, and she even manages a slight smile. Clint returns it, shakily, and then closes his eyes. A moment later, his grip slackens in hers. Natasha exhales quietly, and then looks back at Laura. “Will you teach me?”

 

Laura drags her eyes away from Clint’s slack features to meet Natasha’s eyes. She looks, Natasha thinks, years older than the frightened young girlfriend who had stood frozen outside of this room eighteen hours before, but her eyes are kind, and the smile she gives Natasha is friendly, if hesitant. “Of course,” she says. A moment later, as if uncertain if Natasha will respond, she reaches the hand she’s been using to sign across the bed, her fingers outstretched towards Natasha. “We can do this,” she says, and Natasha can hear the forced confidence in her voice. “It’s going to be okay.”

 

Forced confidence, yes, but Natasha can sense steel under the hesitance in her voice, and her hand is steady where it reaches out for hers. “Yes, we can,” Natasha says, amazed to find herself believing it, and takes Laura’s hand.

 

**2015**

 

They were woken in the middle of the night not by Nate’s crying, but by Natasha’s cell phone ringing in the guest room.

 

Clint groaned, hitting Natasha with a pillow to rouse her, and Laura didn’t blame him a bit, reaching across Clint’s stomach to poke Natasha in the side for good measure. “Wake up,” she said. “Your phone’s gonna wake the baby.”

 

As if on cue, Nate let out a wail. Laura muffled a furious scream into her pillow. “I’m going, I’m going,” Natasha said, rolling out of bed. She stopped by the crib, said something softly in Russian as she lifted Nate up and came back to the bed to hand him to Laura. Laura took him in her arms, kissed the top of his head--he quieted almost instantly at the touch of her lips--and glared pointedly at Natasha, who rolled her eyes (barely visible in the darkness, but Laura _knew_ ) and left the room. A moment later, the ringing stopped.

 

Clint lifted his head from his pillow. “I’m gonna kill her.”

 

“The baby’s back to sleep,” Laura mumbled, stroking Nate’s downy head where it rested on her chest. “Don’t even think he needs changing. No harm done.”

 

“ _I’m_ awake,” Clint pointed out grumpily.

 

“Oh, good. You can put Nate back to bed.”

 

Clint grumbled something intelligible but got out of bed, scooping Nate off of Laura’s chest and into his own arms in a smooth, easy motion. Despite that, Nate started fussing again as soon as he left Laura’s warmth, and Clint made a frustrated sound. “Aww, baby, no.”

 

Laura sighed, sitting up. “Give him here,” she said reluctantly, shoving pillows behind her back. “I’ll nurse him a bit, that’ll put him out for real.” Clint handed him back and Laura pushed the strap of her tank top off, setting Nate against her breast. Clint got back into bed without jostling her and put his head in her lap, just under the arm supporting Nate. Laura rolled her eyes. “Don’t you dare go back to sleep. If I’m up, you’re up.”

 

“I am up,” Clint said, half-muffled against her stomach. “I’m just up horizontally.”

 

Laura made a face at him--pointlessly, she knew, since he couldn’t see her--and yawned, running her free hand through her hair. She could hear Natasha’s voice down the hall, but only barely, and not enough to make out what she was saying. “Who do you think would be calling her this late?”

 

“Steve, probably.”

 

She squinted at the bedside clock. Two a.m., which meant it was three in the morning in New York. “That can’t be with good news.”

 

“Not my problem,” Clint mumbled. “I’m on paternity leave.”

 

“If it’s Nat’s problem, it’s our problem,” Laura reminded him.

 

Clint made an unhappy noise. “The world can wait to be saved until morning. ‘Sides, if there’s an emergency, it’s not like she’d get there in time to do anything about it. Aliens never attack the flyovers.”

 

“A fact for which I, the mother of your children, am extremely grateful.” Laura looked up as Natasha came back into the room, closing the door behind her. “Trouble?”

 

Natasha nodded, pushing a hand through her hair as she climbed back into bed, producing a slight grunt from Clint when she jostled him with her knee. Sensing that none of them would be going back to sleep soon, Laura switched on her bedside lamp, the covered bulb gently illuminating the room. Natasha winced at the sudden light, then said, “Wanda’s not doing well.”

 

Clint lifted his head from Laura’s lap, looking at her with bleary-eyed unhappiness. “Does Rogers need you back?”

 

“Not immediately.” Natasha settled herself cross-legged on Clint’s other side. “Vision is handling her for now. That said…” she shrugged, echoing Clint’s displeased expression so perfectly Laura had to hold back a smile despite the circumstances. “I should probably go deal with her. She responds fairly well to me.”

 

Laura felt her heart sink. It was too soon. She’d known Natasha wouldn’t stay forever, she never did, but it was supposed to be longer, she wasn’t supposed to leave yet--

 

“On the other hand,” Clint said, interrupting Laura’s train of thought as he propped himself up and looked at Natasha over his shoulder. “We could bring her here.”

 

Laura blinked. “What?”

 

“What?” Natasha echoed.

 

Clint sat up, pausing briefly to drop a kiss to Nate’s head. “She and I had a pretty good rapport going, once she stopped trying to kill me,” he said with a shrug. “And she might do well here. Open spaces, fresh air, the kids running around…” he ran his fingers along the crown of Nate’s head. “Seeing Pietro’s namesake might help her, too.”

 

Laura hesitated, tightening her arm around Nate. “But she’s a little...volatile, isn’t she?” she asked carefully, thinking of the kids. Having the Avengers, at least slightly organized and marginally competent, in her living room had been one thing, but an uncontrolled psychic around her very human children...that was something else. “Are you sure it’s a good idea?”

 

Clint looked at Natasha. “Nat? What do you think?”

 

Natasha looked thoughtful. Laura resisted the urge to bite her nails. “She would do well here,” Natasha admitted finally, though Laura could hear the reluctance in her voice. “But I don’t know about having her around the kids. I don’t want to trigger anything.”

 

“Better here, surrounded by four acres of farmland and forest,” Clint pointed out. “Besides, the kids love strays.”

 

“A little too much,” Laura said. “They’ve been asking about a dog.”

 

Clint’s face lit up. “We should _absolutely_ get a dog.”

 

“In any case,” Natasha said, and Laura caught the slight smile she sent her way when Laura sent her a despairing look, “We’d still have to get her here. Would you have Stark fly her out in the Quinjet?”

 

Clint sobered. “Not a chance,” he said. “After Ultron, I don’t want our coordinates programmed into any Stark technology. I love the guy, don’t get me wrong, but I’m done taking chances. I’ll fly commercial out to New York and fly her out myself, keep it on manual. It’s what I used to do with SHIELD.” He glanced at Natasha. “Think she’d go with me without you there? I’d feel better leaving you here.”

 

Laura frowned at him. “We’ve been fine on our own before,” she pointed out, a little ruffled at the sudden protectiveness.

 

“You’ve got one more kid to look out for,” he said gently. “And you’re still post-partum. If you were in top fighting shape without a kid attached to you half the time, it’d be one thing, but this is different.” Laura didn’t relax her glare, but it got harder when his look turned pleading. “Please? My hair’s going gray fast enough as it is.”

 

“He’s got a point,” Natasha said airily. “You don’t want an old-looking husband, Laura. You’re already out of his league.”

 

“You know,” Laura told her, “for a spy, you’re awful at subtlety.”

 

Natasha smiled sweetly at her. “I can live with that.”

 

“Great,” Clint said. “We’re all agreed. I’ll have Stark book me a flight in the morning. Can we go back to sleep now?”

 

“Hit him with a pillow, won’t you?” Laura asked Natasha. “I’d do it, but I’ve got a kid attached to me, which apparently makes me useless.”

 

“Hey,” Clint began, but all other protests were muffled under a volley of fierce pillow battering from a cheerful Natasha. Laura smiled, cooed softly to Nate, and sat back to watch her husband’s inevitable defeat.

 

**2001**

 

They spend three more weeks in the hospital before Clint is discharged. For Laura, those weeks are exhausting, terrifying, and full of sleepless nights, but they’re educational, too.

 

She learns, first, foremost, and almost immediately, that Clint is a _terrible_ patient. She thinks that maybe she should have expected this--after all, she’s seen enough of Clint’s injuries to know that his attitude towards workplace safety is lax at best, and the state of healing he’s been in while visiting her should have given her an indication into his fondness for hospital stays. Still, seeing it in person is something different, and she spends more time than seems even slightly reasonable helping Natasha wrestle him back into bed when he tries to make a run for it despite his still-healing stitches.

 

(She also learns that Natasha is _entirely_ used to this, if the furious Russian the other woman snaps at him as she catches him by the laces of his hospital johnny and pins him to the bed without ever looking up from her book is any indication. It is both impressive and terrifying.)

 

Natasha learns ASL at an astonishing rate. They have a lot of time to work on it while Clint sleeps off anaesthesia and trauma and heaven knows what else, and Laura can’t help but be impressed at the speed at which Natasha picks it up.

 

When she mentions this, Natasha shrugs. “I’m good with languages,” she says simply. “And I’m good with my hands. It isn’t hard to combine the two.”

 

Laura likes Natasha, and she’s not quite sure how to feel about it. She likes Natasha’s wicked smile and the calm, relentless way she handles Clint when he’s making an escape attempt--first in snapped English, and then, increasingly, in rapid ASL that somehow still manages to get across the same tone as her voice while Clint makes faces at her in response. She likes the tender looks Natasha gives Clint when she thinks Laura isn’t watching, and the way she reaches out with gentle fingers to straighten Clint’s IV lines or brush the hair from his forehead. She likes Natasha’s obvious intelligence, her seemingly inherent competence, the calm of her voice that still somehow holds so much feeling.

 

(She notices other things about Natasha, too--the sweep of her hair over her shoulder, the pale curve of her neck, the arch of her back when she stretches after an accidental nap in the chair beside Clint’s bed. Laura notices all of these things with a flutter in her stomach that she hasn’t felt since her freshman year of college when her lab partner Jessa tossed her a wink over her shoulder and brushed her fingers against the small of her back, and it makes her skin tingle all over when she thinks of it. But Clint is still healing and she hasn’t slept more than a few hours in a night since Natasha’s first phone call, so Laura pushes those thoughts and tingles to the back of her mind. They’re a problem for another day.)

 

After three weeks, Clint’s doctors discharge him. Laura’s fairly sure it’s more due to Clint’s constant runs for freedom and Natasha’s chilling competence than any confidence in his medical process, but nonetheless, she’s more than happy to be leaving the hospital. She’s spent almost every moment of her time there for the past weeks, and wherever they go after this, it will be a welcome change.

 

She and Natasha agree, immediately and without argument, that they’ll go to Clint’s place in Bed-Stuy. After the last weeks, and the changes they know are ahead for him--he’s dealing well, so far, but Laura knows her Clint, and knows that an inevitable breakdown is coming--he will need the comforts of home, familiar and safe. The day they leave the hospital, Laura helps Clint into a soft button-up and a pair of sweatpants, gentle on his stitches and still-healing grazes and bruises. She kisses his cheek as she finishes the last button, and he gives her a tired smile.

 

“Thanks,” he says, out loud--he’s still working out his volume, and it probably comes out a little louder than he means to, but Laura smiles anyway. She gives him the sign for _I love you_ , and he grins, weary and sore, but unmistakably _Clint_.

 

Natasha calls them a town car, and they make it back to Clint’s apartment in what must surely be record time. “You have a key?” Natasha asks, helping Clint out of the backseat, and Laura nods. “Go on ahead. I’ve done this part before.”

 

To Laura’s surprise, she doesn’t feel any jealousy at Natasha’s easy claim to helping their mutual...to helping Clint up the stairs. She simply nods, pecks Clint on the nose--he wrinkles it under her lips, which makes her laugh--and hurries up the stairs.

 

The apartment is clean enough, which catches her off-guard, and she straightens up the few bits of mess that are still there--sweeps a few mugs on the counter into the sink, folds the throw blanket and puts it over the back of the couch, and pads up the stairs to the loft to change the sheets on the bed and fluff up the pillows a bit. She’s doing a quick wipe-down of the bathroom counter when she hears the door open downstairs. “Laura?”

 

She goes to the top of the stairs. “Up here.”

 

Natasha comes into view, Clint’s arm draped across her shoulders. “Give me a hand up these last ones?”

 

Laura goes down to meet them, takes Clint’s other arm in hers, and together they maneuver Clint up to the bedroom. Clint beams at his bed like it’s a long-missed old friend. “Bed!” he says, happily.

 

Natasha sighs. “Narcotics,” she says, shaking her head. “I always tell them, he’s an idiot on narcotics. They never listen.”

 

“To be fair,” Laura says, “he’s usually that happy to see a bed. Sleeping’s one of his favorite things.”

 

“Point,” Natasha says, a light chuckle shaking her shoulders. That gets Clint’s attention, and he squints at her.

 

“Can I take a shower?”

 

She shakes her head. _Stitches_ , she signs to him. His face falls.

 

“A little shower?”

 

Natasha glares at him. Laura suppresses a grin. She gets the feeling they’ve had this exchange before. Clint looks at Laura, and then a slow grin of his own spreads across his lips. “Sponge bath?”

 

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Barton,” Natasha sighs, and that clearly needs no translation, because Clint laughs.

 

“Just kidding.” He rolls his neck, winces, and then his knees buckle.

 

Laura lunges forward, but Natasha’s already got her arms around him, lifting him gently. “You’re alright,” she says gently, and then her face turns frustrated. “Laura, sign for me while I move him?” Laura nods, trying to get her heart rate under control, and moves into Clint’s line of sight, waiting until his eyes focus hazily on her before she starts signing in time with Natasha’s words. “Your ears are screwing up your balance. It’s going to take you longer to get back on your feet from this one.”

 

Natasha pauses, and Laura pauses with her, watching the other woman’s face. After a moment, Natasha continues. “You need to let us help you, Clint,” she says, her expression gentle. “And you don’t have to be okay if you’re not.”

 

Clint watches Laura finish signing, and then looks back at Natasha, holding her gaze for a long time. Laura suspects that they’re having a silent conversation, one that runs deep and difficult, and she keeps her distance, lets them have their moment.

 

Finally, Clint’s shoulders sag, and he lets his head fall down into the crook of Natasha’s neck. “I want to sleep in my own bed,” he says, quiet enough that Laura needs to step closer to hear him. “I don’t want to sleep alone.”

 

Laura curls her hand over his hip. He startles slightly, but looks at her. “You’re not alone,” she says, signing as she speaks. “We’re both here with you.”

 

She looks at Natasha, who looks back, holding her gaze over Clint’s head. “Yes,” she says quietly. “We’re both here.”

 

Clint looks back and forth between them. “I want to sleep,” he says again, sounding young and tired, and Laura puts her hands on his waist.

 

“Come,” she says gently, and he does.

 

They climb into bed together, Laura and Natasha carefully and gently maneuvering Clint under the blankets between them. He goes easily enough, closing his eyes against what Laura knows must be awful dizziness, and when they slip into the bed on either side of him he fumbles for both of their hands as Natasha turns off the light. Laura curls in tight against his right side and wraps her arm around him, and feels the warmth of Natasha’s body on his other side as she does the same.

 

It’s only a few moments before Clint’s breathing evens out, slow and steady. He must be exhausted, Laura realizes; the trip up the stairs was more movement than he’s had in three weeks, and he’s still healing. Maybe they did this too soon, she thinks, her shoulders prickling with guilt.

 

As if reading her thoughts, Natasha says, quietly, “It’s better like this. He’ll heal faster here.”

 

Laura swallows. “I don’t want to leave.”

 

“Then don’t,” Natasha says simply. “He needs both of us.”

 

Laura thinks about that, running her thumb over Clint’s hip, just brushing the edge of a bandage. “I think that’s good,” she says, her voice coming out as more of a whisper than she intended. “I don’t think I could do this alone.”

 

Natasha is quiet for a long moment, and for a few seconds, Laura thinks she’s gone to sleep. Finally, though, she says, “I don’t think I could, either.”

 

Laura closes her eyes, turning her head into Clint’s side and breathing him in. He smells like hospital soap and antiseptic, but somewhere there is his own scent, natural and clean. She takes a deep breath and reaches further across Clint to curl her fingers around Natasha’s hand. “I’m glad you’re here, Natasha,” she says.

 

There’s a beat of silence, and then Natasha says, her voice barely audible, “So am I.” Her fingers lace through Laura’s, and Laura’s skin tingles at the easy intimacy of the touch. It shouldn’t feel so comfortable, she thinks, but it does, all the same.

 

**2001**

 

When Clint was seven, he lost his hearing for eight months.

 

He doesn’t remember the fight that led to the injury, or the blow his dad had landed that had left him in silence for more than half a year. Clint doesn’t remember, and Barney never told him, so Clint had figured it would just be a mystery, and had let it go.

 

This time, he remembers everything.

 

In the humming not-silence that is his world now, he has ample time to remember the heat of the explosion, the overwhelming pressure of the shock-wave, the stickiness of blood in his ears, the slicing pain of shrapnel ripping into his body.

 

He can remember the noise of it, but he can’t hear it anymore, and that, maybe, is a blessing.

 

His body is healing slowly, knitting itself back together a millimeter at a time. The stretch and pull of his muscles and skin becoming whole again is grounding, and when he feels himself drifting in the silence he lets the pain bring him back.

 

Other things ground him, too--the smell of Natasha’s hair and Laura’s body lotion, the brush of Laura’s fingers over his cheekbones and the harder press of Natasha’s knuckles into the muscles of his back as she runs through PT routines, the taste of brilliantly red borscht and smooth, salty matzoh-ball soup. It’s probably one of the most comforting healing periods he’s ever had--between Natasha and Laura, they keep him fed, and warm, and clean, and, each in their own way, utterly sure of their love for him despite his newfound inability to hear their voices.

 

The healing is slow, though, and he’s antsy with inactivity. Despite Natasha’s glares and Laura’s more concerned looks, he starts walking two days after they bring him home, and within a week he’s wandering around the apartment on wobbly legs, generally making a nuisance of himself until someone--usually Natasha--takes him by the arm and puts him firmly on his ass on the couch. His surgeon is refusing to clear him for anything other than light--” _Very_ light,” he’d said sternly--movement, and anything resembling exertion is off the table. Clint hates sitting still if he’s not on the job, so when the frustration mounts, he relaxes down into sniper mode, and watches Natasha and Laura.

 

They circle each other carefully at first, as if unsure of each other’s needs for space, or unwilling to make the other uncomfortable with too much affection towards Clint. Natasha moves: she goes for runs, stretches, cleans the impressive array of weapons she’s brought with her from her own apartment in Manhattan. It’s not restless movement, not with Natasha, she simply glides from one space to another, smooth and sinuous. Laura is stationary and calm: she’ll spend a morning in the kitchen, an afternoon on the couch with Clint with a book and a mug of the fancy tea she’s brought from home. Both women have all but moved in with him; if either of them are planning to leave, they’re not letting Clint know.

 

As the days go by, though, things shift. They start to drift closer together, orbiting into each other’s activities around the apartment. Natasha will perch on a barstool in the kitchen, watching Laura’s steady hands knead bread dough or whip together a batch of cookies; Laura will peer over Natasha’s shoulder, pointing to one gun or another and watching with intent curiosity as Natasha’s mouth moves, presumably telling her one of the many stories that go with every gun she owns. They’ll watch movies together when they think he’s asleep--well, Clint doesn’t pretend he can fool Nat, but he’s pretty sure Laura buys it--sitting on the couch, close enough to touch.

 

At night they pile together into Clint’s bed, Nat and Laura on either side of him, their arms circling around him and keeping him safe. The humming is at its worst at night, and while the audiologist promises him it’ll get better in time, for now, it’s driving him mad. He concentrates on the weight and warmth of the women surrounding him, the texture of their skin, the different scents of their hair that have somehow started to blend together.

 

The nightmares come at night, and in his dreams he can hear everything--the echoing crash of the explosion, the shattering rain of shrapnel, Natasha’s terrified screams. He jerks awake, sickeningly grateful for the silence, sweat-slick and unable to hear his own gasps, while Laura and Nat wrap him in their arms. He lets their hair tangle into his mouth and doesn’t bother to pretend he’s not crying.

 

But slowly, slowly, he heals. And he watches.

 

And he starts to notice things.

 

He notices Laura watching Natasha when Nat steps out of the bathroom after her morning shower, her dark-eyed gaze flickering over Natasha’s shoulders and collarbone as she turns her head to towel at her hair. He notices Natasha’s eyes lingering over Laura’s hands when she’s sketching, the way she does a double-take when the sunlight flickering through the windows turn Laura’s brown hair into a dark, honeyed gold. He notices the soft smiles they exchange when they’re folding laundry or practicing ASL. He notices that Natasha brings Laura tea when Laura allows the worry to get to her enough to make her cry, and that Laura drapes blankets over Natasha’s shoulders when Natasha dozes off on the couch. He notices the flush on Laura’s cheeks when Natasha’s fingers brush over her skin when they pass dishes across the table, and Natasha’s thoughtful, contemplating gaze as she looks at Laura in the early light of the morning, when they’re all still tangled together in the blankets.

 

He notices, and in the silence, he thinks, _Interesting._

 

**2015**

 

Clint told the kids he was leaving over breakfast the next morning.

 

It didn’t go well.

 

Natasha barely had time to move her mug of coffee out of the way as Lila burst into hysterical tears, launching herself across the table and into his arms. “You _promised_ ,” she wailed, her voice barely muffled by Clint’s neck. He winced, and Natasha gave him a sympathetic look. “You said you were staying all _summer_!”

 

“You did say you were staying,” Cooper said, his expression dark and his tone accusing. Laura, sitting next to him, wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

 

“Daddy’s only going away for a day or so,” she said gently. “Right?” she said pointedly, narrowing her eyes at Clint.

 

“Right,” he said, pulling slightly at Lila’s arms. “Honey, you’re choking me.”

 

Lila didn’t loosen her grip. “Good,” she said fiercely. “If you can’t breathe, you can’t leave.”

 

Natasha managed to hide her snort of laughter into her coffee. Clint glared at her, then resumed his attempts at untwining Lila’s vice-grip around his neck. “I see you’ve been taking lessons from your Aunt Nat.”

 

“Aunt Nat is very smart,” Natasha said, putting her coffee down and holding out her arms for Lila. “Come here, hawkling.”

 

Looking vaguely suspicious, Lila unwrapped her arms from around Clint’s neck and allowed herself to be passed over to Natasha’s lap. Natasha settled her into her arms and kissed her cheek. “Now,” she said “Your daddy is just going to New York to pick up a friend and bring her here for a visit. He’s not going to be in any danger, and he’ll be back before you know it, with someone new for you to play with.”

 

Lila frowned, but her tears calmed slightly. “No fighting?”

 

“No fighting,” Clint said, rubbing his neck slightly. “I promise, baby. I’m just flying out for a quick trip. I won’t even make any pit stops.” Laura cleared her throat slightly, and Clint grinned. “Sorry. I will make _one_ pit stop, in Brooklyn, for bagels and cream cheese.”

 

“Darn right you will,” Laura muttered, shifting Nate slightly in his sling.

 

Cooper’s expression hadn’t lightened. “If it’s safe,” he said, “Can I go with you?”

 

Natasha tensed. The Avengers Training Facility in upstate New York was less of a glaring target than the Tower, but she didn’t like the idea of Cooper there, even if Clint would be with him the whole time. Laura’s expression was just as uncertain, but she was looking at Clint, clearly willing to let him make the call.

 

After a moment, Clint shook his head. “Not this time, buddy,” he said. “I had to get Stark to book me a last-minute ticket, and I don’t know that he could get us on the same flight. Next time, though, hey?”

 

Cooper frowned. After a moment, he nodded slowly. “Okay.”

 

“Hey,” Natasha said, leaning forward. “You and me will go for a run later, okay?”

 

He seemed to relax a bit at that. “Okay,” he said, his tone more agreeable this time.

 

Clint shot her a grateful look, and Natasha returned it with a small salute of her coffee mug. “When are you leaving?” she asked, shifting to let Lila relax more comfortably into her lap.

 

“Stark got me on a flight out of Waterloo at one,” he said. “I’ll kit up in the next hour or so and head out.”

 

“When will you be home?” Lila asked, making a grabbing motion across the table.

 

Clint reached out, picked up her abandoned bowl of cereal, and moved it into her reach. “Tomorrow, I hope.”

 

Natasha winced slightly as a mostly-placated Lila began munching on her cereal very close to Natasha’s ear, but the rest of breakfast passed without incident.

 

Despite the kids practically hanging off his body, Clint still managed to get packed and by the door in the hour he’d planned on. He tossed his duffle into the back seat of the truck and let the kids tackle him to the ground, showering both of them with kisses while Natasha and Laura looked on in amusement. “You know, I feel like I should be almost disgusted by this,” Natasha remarked. “But it’s almost adorable.”

 

“Just wait until Nate’s old enough to join in,” Laura said with a sly grin. “Why do you think I wanted a third?”

 

“Clint said it’s because you’re trying to build an army,” Natasha said.

 

Laura laughed. “But a very, very cute army,” she said, and stepped off the porch. “Okay, monkeys, scram out of the way so mommy can get her kiss goodbye.”

 

Clint untangled himself from the web of arms and legs. “You should probably just go inside,” he told the kids. “This could get sappy.” Laura batted her eyelashes at him, and Cooper made a face.

 

“ _Gross_ , Dad,” he said, taking Lila by the arm and herding her inside despite her protests.

 

Laura chuckled. “Way to prey on his nine-year-old sensibilities,” she said, stepping into Clint’s arms.

 

“I was a nine-year-old boy once,” he said. He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tight, while Natasha leaned against the truck. She’d get her own goodbye at the airport. For now, she was content to watch them, the practiced way they folded into each other--Laura’s head tucked into the crook of Clint’s neck, Clint’s lips pressed against Laura’s hair as he ran his fingers up and down her back. Nate, squished between them, didn’t appear to mind at all.

 

Finally, they separated, Clint dropping one last kiss onto Laura’s lips. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, resting his forehead against hers. “And you’ll have Nat with you.”

 

“Mm,” Laura said, closing her eyes for a moment before sighing and stepping back. “Stay safe,” she said.

 

“Always do.” Clint looked at Natasha. “You ready, driver?”

 

Natasha snorted. “You’re driving,” she said. “I’m just bringing your piece of crap truck back once you’re on the plane.”

 

“It’s not a piece of crap,” Clint said defensively. Natasha snorted, climbing into the passenger side. Clint rolled his eyes and climbed in on his side, starting the engine. Natasha could see him watching the farm in the rear-view mirror as they drove away.

 

The drive passed in comfortable silence. Clint drove with one hand on the wheel and one resting on the gear-shift, and Natasha knew that it was there in case she wanted to reach for it, take it in her own. She didn’t take it, but she liked that it was there, waiting for her, and every now and then she brushed her fingertips against the inside of his forearm, just to see him smile.

 

As they neared the airport, Clint said, quietly, “Anything I should know about Wanda that I don’t already?”

 

Natasha thought about that. “She doesn’t need to be handled,” she said after a moment, running a hand through her hair. “She’s grieving, but she’s not so fragile that you need to treat her like glass. Kindness is good, coddling isn’t.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Try not to...try not to _dad_ her too much.”

 

Clint shot her an offended look. “I don’t _dad_ people,” he protested.

 

She couldn’t suppress her snort of laughter. “You _absolutely_ dad people,” she said. “You should see the look on your face when Tony starts manically walking around and only living on coffee. It looks like you’re physically restraining yourself from sitting him down and feeding him. You know he’s older than you, right?”

 

“So are you; doesn’t mean you’re capable of looking after yourself without the occasional reminders,” Clint muttered.

 

Natasha punched his arm lightly. “Don’t talk about a woman’s age, Barton.”

 

He stuck his tongue out at her without taking his eyes off the road, taking the exit for the airport. “Besides,” he said. “What about all the times I didn’t tell rookie SHIELD agents to lace their boots properly? No credit for that?”

 

“I will give you credit for not telling the baby SHIELD agents to straighten their uniforms,” Natasha allowed, giving him a wry smile. She hesitated, and then said, “Wanda told me what you told her in Sokovia.”

 

Clint glanced at her. “What did I tell her in Sokovia?”

 

“You don’t remember?”

 

“It was a busy day.”

 

Natasha slid her fingers along his arm again, stopping just short of lacing her fingers through his over the gear shift. “She said you gave her a choice,” she said. “That if she wasn’t ready to go fight, that it was okay, and you’d send Pietro for her. But that if she was going to go out and fight, she’d be an Avenger. Part of a team. Part of something good.”

 

Clint made a soft sound. “Sounds familiar.”

 

She glanced at him, looking at the familiar curve of his profile as he watched the road. “She said it was the first time in a long time that anyone had given her a choice, and let her know that either choice was okay.” Natasha pushed her hair back. “I don’t think you know how much that meant to her.”

 

“I do,” Clint said quietly. Natasha looked at him again, saw the soft comprehension on his face, the same gentle understanding he had when he talked about Cooper or Lila, and she couldn’t help smiling. _Dad face_ , she thought fondly. “I could see it all over her face.”

 

“She hasn’t had a parent in a long time,” she said. “I don’t know how she’ll take to it when she’s not in the field.”

 

Clint shrugged. “I don’t have to be her dad,” he said. “She just needs a safe place, and that’s something I can give.”  


“Dad,” she said teasingly.

 

“Shut up.”

 

Natasha chuckled, reaching up and tucking her hand between Clint’s headrest and head, curling her fingers against the back of his neck and scratching gently at the short hair at the nape of his neck. “Only because I like driving in silence,” she said.

 

Clint hummed his agreement, making a pleased sound when she started to run her thumb over the skin of his neck, and she kept her hand in place for the rest of the drive. It was a comfortable place for it, and if she was going to put him on a plane, she didn’t have to let him go just yet.

 

**2001**

 

Clint gets his first set of hearing aids eight weeks out from the accident, and almost immediately, the mood of the apartment changes.

 

The first thing Laura notices is that it gets louder. Clint starts talking again and she and Natasha do, too, and she realizes how _good_ it is to hear his voice. He smiles more, touches more freely, as if an invisible barrier has disappeared. Even the stiffness that had clung to his movements as he healed from the more visible wounds seems to have started to fade.

 

The next change, and the more uncomfortable one, is that the easy balance she and Natasha have gained between them falters. With Clint back on his feet, she feels like she’s not sure how to act around the other woman anymore. She’d been getting comfortable--too comfortable, she thinks now, like she had been reaching for something that wasn’t hers. The quiet touches of their hands, the quick glances over the dinner table, the easy comfort of early mornings in bed...they seem strange now, and she isn’t sure if they’re okay anymore, now that they’re not distracted by caring for Clint.

 

To her surprise, Clint’s the one who says something. “You two need to talk,” he says as they’re cleaning up from dinner, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning at them.

 

Natasha puts the last dish in the sink and turns to him, arching an eyebrow. “What?”

 

Clint holds her gaze, and Laura gets the feeling that the look going between them is one that’s been exchanged many, many times before. “You’ve been dancing around each other like you’re walking on eggshells since I got my ears back in,” he says. “I don’t know what’s up, because I thought things were going weirdly good between you, but whatever’s going on, you need to figure it out.”

 

He holds Natasha’s gaze until she sighs and nods, gives Laura a far less severe look, and then turns on his heel and goes upstairs to shower. Laura hesitates for a moment, and then offers, “Tea?”

 

Natasha takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, and then exhales. “Yes, please.”

 

Laura fixes two mugs of tea, automatically adding the right amounts of milk and sugar to Natasha’s, and follows Natasha to the couch. She hands Natasha her mug and sits down, a little further from her than she has been. “So,” she says quietly.

 

“So,” Natasha echoes. She runs her thumb over the ceramic of her mug. “Clint’s doing well.”

 

“Better than I would have thought,” Laura agrees, and it’s true. The hearing aids have spurred Clint into new energy, his grin bright and his hands dancing in a way they haven’t been in weeks. She hesitates. “But if he’s getting better…”

 

Natasha looks at her, her green eyes patient, but when Laura doesn’t finish her sentence, Natasha does it for her. “He doesn’t need both of us here.”

 

Laura looks down at her tea. “I’m almost out of leave time,” she says, which is true--she’d tapped into her FMLA time, telling her boss she needed to care for her boyfriend after an accident, but the cap is twelve weeks, and they’re going on nine. And she still has rent to pay. “I could head out soon.”

 

“He’s good with you here,” Natasha says.

 

“But he doesn’t _need_ me here.” Laura tucks her hair behind her ear. “And you’ve done this part before--looking after him when he’s healing.”

 

Natasha snorts. “I don’t usually stay this long,” she says. “He starts driving me crazy with the whining after awhile--I usually take a job.”

 

That takes Laura by surprise. “But you stayed this time.”

 

It’s not a question, but Natasha shrugs. “You made it a little easier,” she says. “You kept it calm. Peaceful. And it was helping, having someone to care with me. Someone who was dealing with the same stress, the same fear. And to have the quiet moments, too.” She hesitates, and then says, “I liked having you here.”

 

“Thank you,” Laura says, feeling oddly touched. She doesn’t know why it means so much to her, but realizes a moment later that it’s because she can tell Natasha’s not the sort to say such things lightly. She sips her tea, trying to think of what she could say. “You know, I spent years thinking about what you’d be like when I finally met you,” she says. “I guess I always knew we’d meet someday, and I was trying to figure out, you know...would you be friendly? Would you be nice to me?” She presses her lips together. “I mean, I knew you couldn’t be a _bad_ person--Clint wouldn’t love you like he does if you were--but I didn’t know how you’d treat someone who was sleeping with your partner.”

 

Natasha arches one eyebrow. “Before you, I didn’t meet the people who slept with my partner,” she said. “Unless I was there when they were sleeping with him.”

 

Laura chokes briefly on her next sip of tea. “What?”

 

“He didn’t mention that?”

 

“He did not,” Laura croaks, swallowing a few times to attempt to clear her lungs while Natasha laughs and pats her back. “Was that something you guys...did a lot?”

 

Natasha shrugs one shoulder. “Time to time,” she says. “Never the same person more than once. It was usually somebody we’d meet on a job, have some mutual chemistry with.”

 

“Oh.” Laura runs her thumbs along her mug. She thinks about that, and suddenly it makes a bit more sense that Natasha would be willing to give Clint carte blanche to date outside their relationship if she’d already been used to sharing. Then, without really meaning to, she pictures herself between Clint and Natasha, and feels her cheeks flame hot. As quickly as she can, she covers it with a sip of tea. Natasha glances at her, and Laura knows she’s been caught.

 

But all Natasha does is smile. “Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

 

Laura flushes. “It’s okay.” She returns Natasha’s smile, a little hesitantly. “But I was glad you were here, too. I wouldn’t have known what I was doing, first of all, but it was also...You helped me when I was ready to break down over and over again. You were...you were sweet.”

 

Natasha laughs at that. Laura raises her eyebrows at her, and Natasha shakes her head. “‘Sweet’ isn’t something I’m called very often.”

 

“What do you usually get?”

 

“‘Terrifying’ is pretty common,” Natasha says lightly, sipping her tea. “‘Evil.’ ‘Murderous.’”

 

Laura shifts at that, a little uncomfortable. “By people on your jobs?”

 

“Hm? No. Those are all from Clint.”

 

Laura can’t help a laugh. “He would,” she says, and feels a warm flutter in her chest at Natasha’s answering smile. They sit together in a far more comfortable silence for a few minutes, drinking their tea and listening to the shower run upstairs. “So,” she says finally. “What now?”

 

Natasha runs a hand through her hair. “The way I see it, we have two options,” she says. “Option one, we go back to the way things used to be. Clint goes back and forth between us. If you give me your number, I can check in with you now and again--I can give you updates on Clint after jobs, probably more honest ones’ than he would. If you want, we could meet up once in a while, get a drink, complain about the idiot upstairs. But most of the time, we’ll just orbit around each other, like we used to.”

 

She’s describing what had been their status quo for five years, but for some reason, it makes Laura’s heart sink. “What’s option two?”

 

“Option two.” Natasha puts her mug down on the coffee table, takes Laura’s and does the same. She cups Laura’s face in hands that are cool and smooth against Laura’s still-flushed cheeks--Laura catches her breath, but can’t move away--and leans forward, brushing her lips against Laura’s.

 

The touch is feather-light but electric, and Laura feels her heart skip a beat in her chest. Natasha’s lips are soft against hers, and when Laura doesn’t (can’t, how could she?) pull away, she leans in closer, increases the pressure. Laura hears a quiet sound come from somewhere and realizes with a jolt that it came from her, a fluttery moan that reverberates through her like a pulse. Natasha makes a sound of her own and her hands shift from Laura’s cheeks to her hair, her fingers threading deep, and Laura leans forward, curling her hands over Natasha’s hips. She hasn’t kissed another woman since her first year of college, but good _God_ everything she’d loved about it then comes flooding back to her now.

 

When they part, they’re breathless. Natasha’s cheeks are flushed, her lips kiss-swollen, and Laura’s willing to bet she doesn’t look much different. Natasha takes a deep, shaky breath, smiles at her, and says, “That’s option two.”

 

“I like option two,” Laura says, and ducks her head down into the crook of Natasha’s neck. Natasha’s arms loop around her shoulders.

 

Natasha laughs, warm and husky, her fingers trailing over Laura’s back. “So do I.”

 

They lie there together on the couch, tangled and comfortable. After a moment, a thought occurs to Laura, and she starts to laugh. Natasha’s fingers still. “What is it?”

 

“Clint’s face when he finds out,” Laura manages, around a mouthful of giggles. “It’s going to be _priceless_.”

 

Clint comes downstairs a few minutes later, stops dead in his tracks when he sees them on the couch, and proves Laura hilariously, hilariously right.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings this chapter: Hospitalization, mention of physical trauma, description of anxiety attacks, reference to child physical abuse
> 
> Thank you all for putting up with me while I powered through this chapter! It's a bit longer than the last few, so hopefully that makes up for the wait. ;) Thanks as always to [Deb](http://debz0rz.tumblr.com) for proof-reading and also for putting up with my whining about writer's block, and to everyone who continues to leave comments here and send messages to me over at [my tumblr](http://geniusorinsanity.tumblr.com) with affection and encouragement. :) Comments keep me motivated, because I'm always a slut for written affirmation of people liking my stuff. ;)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faster updates you were promised, and a faster update you received! My game plan is to update every two weeks or so until this beast is finished. Enjoy!
> 
> See end of chapter for content warnings.

 

  **2015**

 

Laura loved her children. They were her pride and joy, the light of her life; she would have died for them in an instant.

 

However, when they were spending the day sulking over their father’s absence, she often found herself wrestling with the urge to strangle them.

 

Given that, the moment she heard the hum of the truck’s engine pulling up to the house, she was more than happy to point at the door. “Out,” she told the kids, who had been slumped grumpily on the couch complaining about how there was nothing fun to read in the house for the better part of an hour. “Right now. Tell Auntie Nat to give you an activity.”

 

Cooper and Lila exchanged brief glances and skittered out the front door. Laura sat back her chair with a _humph_ , running her hand through her hair. Finally, some silence that wasn’t tinged with crankiness. Maybe she could even enjoy a few sips of her tea, she thought, picking up the mug that she’d abandoned a few minutes before in favor of quietly smacking her forehead against the table to keep herself from screaming. She could handle a lot--her husband running off into life-threatening situations, functioning as a mostly-single mother, the constant will-she-won’t-she that was their relationship with Nat--but she drew the line at whining.

 

The front door opened and closed. Laura closed her eyes and very slowly counted to five in her head. “Heaven help me,” she said. “I will take away television time for a _month_.”

 

A soft chuckle curled around her. “I don’t think that’s quite necessary,” Natasha said, and Laura opened her eyes in time to see Natasha settle down in the chair next to her.

 

Laura looked over her shoulder. “Where are the little monsters?”

 

“I told them to go collect very specific sizes and shapes of rocks.”

 

That caught Laura off-guard. “Why?”

 

Natasha shrugged. “No clue, but I figured that by the time they collected enough of them, I’d have thought of something.”

 

“Make rock pets,” Laura suggested. “Or feelings stones.”

 

“Cute.” Natasha plucked Laura’s mug from her hand, peering into it. “Any hot water left?”

 

Laura shook her head as Natasha handed the mug back to her. “I’ll put the kettle back up.”

 

“No, I’ll do it. I’ve been driving for two hours, I need the stretch.” Natasha got to her feet, moving to the stove and picking up the kettle. Laura shifted her chair to look at her.

 

“Clint head off okay?”

 

Natasha nodded, filling the kettle at the sink. “His plane took off on time. He said he’ll call when he lands in New York.” She put the kettle on the burner, turned the stove on, and leaned comfortably against the counter, slipping her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “I take it from your greeting that the kids haven’t been angels while I was gone?”

 

Laura gave her a Look, eyes narrowed, and Natasha snorted a fond laugh. “That answers that.”

 

“I am a good mother,” Laura said. “I love my children. I just sometimes need to remind myself of that so that I don’t absolutely _drown_ the little rascals.”

 

This time, Natasha’s laugh was full and open. “Should I be checking the soup pots for Nate?”

 

Laura shook her head. “He’s slept most of the morning,” she said, nodding to the baby monitor on the table. “Right now, he’s my favorite of the bunch.”

 

“Fair enough.” The kettle whistled, and Natasha plucked it from the stove, dropping a tea bag into a mug and filling it. She put the kettle back down and brought her mug to the table, settling down beside Laura again. Laura felt the toe of Natasha’s boot nudge against her ankle, and smiled despite herself. “Are they always like this when we leave?”

 

“Not always.” Laura curled her hands around her own mug, letting the residual heat of her tea seep into her hands. She shifted her gaze to look out the window, where she could just make out Lila and Cooper, combing the edges of the woods, presumably for stones. “Believe it or not, they do better when he’s going off to do anything dangerous.”  


Natasha looked thoughtful. “That doesn’t surprise me, actually,” she said. “When he’s in danger, they want to be brave for you, just like you want to be brave for them. You all put on the front. But when he’s not, when he’s just gone…” She shrugged one shoulder. “The stakes are lower, so all the frustrated energy they have to hide when he’s off actually risking his neck comes out.”

 

Laura eyed her. “Why, Natasha,” she said. “You never told me that all of your secret spy training extended to child psychology.” Natasha made a face, poking Laura’s calf with the toe of her boot, and Laura laughed. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be.” Natasha ran a hand through her hair, and Laura suddenly found herself wondering which of them had picked that gesture up from the other. Or maybe, she thought with sudden amusement, they’d both picked it up from Clint. “It’s probably something I picked up from you, anyway. The child psych stuff. I remember you talking about the developmental stuff when Cooper was little.”

 

She’d been getting her second Master’s then, and had driven Clint and Natasha crazy by convincing herself that Cooper was an absolute genius while simultaneously panicking that every tantrum was a sign of an undiagnosed disability or a prelude to what would surely become a major mental illness as soon as he hit later childhood. There had been an intervention. It had been very embarrassing, and she’d been quite proud of herself for keeping any panic about Lila’s early childhood personality quirks to herself. “In any case, you’re probably right,” she said, pointedly not addressing Natasha’s comment. “The pent-up stress, I mean.” She twisted her hair around her finger, then twined it into a loose braid over her shoulder. “I should find a better way to get them through it, I know, but it’s just…”

 

Natasha reached across the table, curling her hand over Laura’s wrist and stroking gently over her pulse point. “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” she said gently. “You lead a tough life out here, Laura, and don’t ever think Clint doesn’t know that, but that doesn’t mean you need to always be the strong one.”

 

Laura snorted. “Please,” she said. “I’m not the one out there risking my life to save the world.”

 

“That’s the easy part,” Natasha said, releasing Laura’s wrist and sitting back. “We’re out there fighting, sure, but you’re the one giving us something to fight for.” Laura raised a disbelieving eyebrow, but Natasha shook her head. “I mean it, Laura. Look around this place.” She gestured around the room--the toys strewn around, the pictures held to the fridge by magnets, the warmth and love Laura had spent years doing everything she could to build into every nook and cranny in the house. “You make this place what it is. You keep the kids happy and healthy and so loved. You’re here waiting for us, every time. You give us a home to come back to.” She smiled softly. “Steve and Stark and Thor and even Bruce, they were fighting to save the world. But Clint and me, we’re more selfish than that. We’ve never cared about the world. But we sure as hell care about you.”

 

Laura’s eyes prickled with sudden tears. “Stupid hormones,” she sniffled, reaching for a tissue and knowing she wasn’t fooling anyone, but Natasha’s smile was fond and gentle.

 

The front door slammed open. “Auntie Nat!” Lila shouted. “We found _lots_ of rocks!”

 

“And a snake,” Cooper added, fairly bouncing with excitement, and then looked at Laura. “I put it back,” he said hastily.

 

“I bet you did,” Laura said. “C’mere, monkeys.” She held out her arms and tugged both children into them, taking a deep inhale of the sweet, rough-and-tumble, outdoorsy smell of them. They hugged her back, a little tighter than she’d expected, and she realized that maybe they were as frustrated with her as she’d been with them, and the peacemaking hug was needed all around. “I love you both,” she said, her voice mostly muffled in Lila’s hair. “You know that, right? Even when momma’s cranky?”

 

“Dad says we should know it most when you’re cranky,” Cooper said. “‘Cause that’s when you need us most.”

 

Laura laughed. “He’s a smart man, your daddy,” she said. “Though he doesn’t show it all the time.” She released them, straightening up in her chair. “Why don’t you two go wash some of that dirt off, and then you can show me and Auntie Nat all your stones?”

 

The kids raced off. Shaking her head in amusement, Natasha got to her feet. “I suppose I’d better follow them,” she said. “Someone needs to make sure they wash some of the grime out from under their fingernails.” She started to move away, but Laura reached out and caught her hand. She paused. “You okay?”

 

“I’m good,” Laura said, smiling up at her. Natasha tilted her head to one side, looking curious, and Laura smiled more broadly. “You called this _home_ ,” she said. “You haven’t done that in a long time.”

 

Natasha blinked, her lips parting slightly. “I suppose I haven’t.”

 

Laura squeezed her hand. “I like it.”

 

Natasha hesitated for a moment, and then she smiled. “You know,” she said, “So do I.”

 

**2002**

 

Nights in New York are never quiet, but tonight is close. Laura wraps her arms around her knees, perched on a wooden crate on the roof of Clint’s--no, _their_ \--apartment building, letting the cold air rustle through her hair. It’s January, and really too cold to be out here, but Laura likes it.

 

Clint stands a few feet from her, his body a perfectly composed line, firing arrow after arrow into the targets mounted at the far end of the roof. Laura pulls her sleeves over her fingers and watches him, taking in the calm on his face, the smooth, practiced ease of his motions, and she smiles. It had taken months after the explosion for that calm confidence to return, but it’s there now, and to Laura, it’s gorgeous. The way he stands now, and with the purple hat over his head and covering the tell-tale curve of his hearing aids, it’s impossible to tell that he’s lost eighty percent of his hearing in both ears.

 

As she watches, Clint draws back his bow, takes a breath, exhales, and releases the arrow. It flies straight and true, hitting the exact center of the target with a hard _thwack_ , and Laura whistles through her fingers. Clint turns to her, a grin blooming on his face, and makes her an exaggerated bow. She laughs. “Such a showman!”

 

“They didn’t call me the Amazing Hawkeye for nothin’, darlin’,” he says, purposefully amplifying his midwestern drawl. Slinging his bow over his shoulder, he heads down across the roof towards the target to retrieve his arrows. “You sure you’re not too cold up here? You don’t have to stay.”

 

“I like watching you,” she says. The grin he shoots over his shoulder at her can only be described as shit-eating, and Laura rolls her eyes. “You’re incorrigible.”

 

“Can you blame me?”

 

“She might not, but I can.” Natasha’s dry voice comes from just over Laura’s shoulder, and Laura nearly jumps out of her skin. Someday she’ll figure out how Natasha creeps around so silently, but today is clearly not that day. She makes a face at Natasha, who chuckles and hands her a steaming mug. “Sorry. Here, I brought you a peace offering.”

 

Laura takes the mug from her, smiling at the warmth of the ceramic on her chilled skin. She breathes in the sweet, spicy smell of the hot chocolate, immediately detecting the presence of cinnamon liquor, and goes to take a sip of it before pausing, the mug halfway to her mouth. “Peace offering?” She asks, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. “Why were you bringing me a peace offering?”

 

Natasha blinks at her, looking innocent. Laura doesn’t let her get away with it. It’s only been a few months and this thing between the two of them is still fragile and new, but Laura’s already figured out that Natasha only looks _that_ innocent if she’s got something to hide. A moment later, she’s proven right when Natasha sighs. “We have a job. It’s going to need both of us, and for probably about two weeks.”

 

Laura frowns. Since Clint lost his hearing, they’ve only taken a few jobs together, and Laura had spent every day of each of them as a nervous wreck until Natasha had finally agreed to put a limit on the jobs they took that put them out of the country for more than a week. “Tasha, you promised.”

 

Clint comes back to them, his quiver hanging full at his hip. “Who promised what now?”

 

“You should be wearing a jacket,” Natasha says, frowning.

 

“ _You_ are changing the subject,” Laura begins, and then glances at Clint, who puts his hands into the pockets of his jeans, but not before Laura sees that his fingers are red and raw. “Actually, no, she’s right, you should be wearing a jacket. And gloves.”

 

“Now who’s changing the subject?” Clint teases. Laura raises her eyebrows at him, and he settles. “Alright, alright.” He digs around in the pockets of his jeans and comes up with a pair of black gloves, which he waves triumphantly--Laura meets Natasha’s eyes and rolls her own--and pulls on. “Happy?”

 

Natasha shakes her head. “You should have been wearing them already.”

 

“They throw off my grip, Nat, you know that. Don’t baby me just because Laura’s here.” Clint’s eyes go cool for a moment and Laura watches the look that goes between them, steady and calm and speaking of years of knowledge of each other’s limits. Once, looks like that made Laura feel like an outsider. These days, she knows the love that shifts between their eyes, and watching those looks makes warmth pool in her chest.

 

After a long moment, Natasha inclines her head in acknowledgment, and Clint grins. “Thank you,” he says. “Now, what was that about a job?”

 

“She says she has one,” Laura says, looking moodily into her hot chocolate. “For both of you. Even though you just did one a few weeks ago, and you promised--”

 

“I know I promised, голубка, but this one is special.” Natasha curls her fingers into Laura’s hair, a brief, possessive gesture that makes Laura’s skin tingle. The endearment is one that Natasha only uses for her, голубка, _little dove_. She looks at Clint. “It’s Yelena.”

 

Clint’s face shuts down. “No.”

 

“Clint--”

 

“ _No_ , Nat,” Clint snaps, and Laura starts. The two of them snark and bicker at each other like kittens caught in a wet bag, but he’s rarely ever sharp with her. “She almost killed us last time.”

 

Laura clears her throat pointedly, and they look at her. “Who,” she says, “is Yelena?”

 

The two of them look at each other, the brief animosity dissolving immediately. “She’s…” Natasha begins, and then breaks off, shaking her head. “No. Laura, you don’t need to know this.”

 

“The hell I _don’t_ ,” Laura retorts. “She’s clearly important. I want to know what’s going on.”

 

Clint’s expression shifts, turning uncertain. “I think I’m with Nat on this,” he says. “The less you know, the safer you are.”

 

Laura manages, because she is An Adult, not to stomp her foot. “You,” she says, leveling a finger at Clint, who winces, “have been dancing around giving me straight answers about what you do for _six years_. And I’ve been putting up with it so far. But if this thing between us,” she gestures between the three of them, and it’s Natasha’s turn to flinch slightly, “is going to work, you two need to be _honest_ with me.”

 

Clint gazes at her for a long moment, emotions she can’t quite read shifting in his eyes, then glances briefly at Natasha and sighs. “You know,” he says, “this would be a lot easier if you were just a little less competent at relationships and communication.”

 

“Tough,” Laura says. She goes to cross her arms over her chest and remembers her mug of hot chocolate at the last moment. She takes a firm sip of it instead, feels the cinnamon liquor burn into her chest, and looks at Natasha. “Well?”

 

Natasha’s lips part slightly, her eyes flitting back and forth between Laura and Clint. “I…” she hesitates, her lower lip trembling, and Laura feels a prickle of concern. “I can’t.”

 

“Nat,” Clint says, reaching out for her. “You can--”

 

She shakes her head, stepping out of his reach and Laura’s. “No,” she says. “No, Clint, it’s not the same, she _knows_ you, I’m not the same--”

 

Her voice catches, taking on an almost panicked tone, and Laura moves before she realizes what she’s doing, pushing her mug into Clint’s hands and catching Natasha’s arms. “Tasha,” she says, and something in her tone makes Natasha stop talking, her green eyes wide as they meet Laura’s. “Tasha, whatever it is, it’s okay. We’ll talk about it. But you need to trust me, okay?”

 

Natasha takes a visibly shaking breath, and then another. Slowly, hesitantly, she nods.

 

Laura leans forward and very, very gently brushes her lips across Natasha’s. “Good,” she says, trying not to get too worried about what Natasha could possibly be so afraid to tell her. “Thank you.”

 

Clint’s fingers brush against the small of Laura’s back. “I think,” he says quietly, “that if we’re going to do this, we should do it inside.”

 

They don’t argue. Laura slips her hand into Natasha’s as they head downstairs, partially to show her that she’s still there, but partially, she knows, to keep the other woman from running away. She knows that if Natasha wanted to be somewhere else, Laura’s grip on her hand wouldn’t stop her, but it comforts her anyway.

 

The apartment is warm and cozy inside, and Laura feels her chest warm as soon as they cross the threshold. It’s still Clint’s place in name, and both she and Natasha have their own apartments, but they spend the most time here, each of them with enough clothes here that Clint had caved and bought a second dresser for the bedroom, and Laura loves that the space feels as much like a home to her as her own place that she shares with two roommates in Brooklyn Heights.

 

Clint hangs his bow on the wall and his quiver on the coat rack, and drifts automatically into the kitchen. Laura knows, without looking, that he’s putting up coffee. She hangs up her coat, waits for Natasha to do the same, and then steers her to one of the stools by the breakfast bar. “Sit,” she says, and Natasha does. Laura settles herself on the stool next to her, sips her cocoa--still plenty hot--and says, “Okay. Where do you want to start?”

 

Natasha and Clint exchange glances, having another one of those silent arguments. Clint seems to lose, because he huffs out a breath, narrows his eyes at Natasha briefly, and then relaxes his face and shoulders as he turns to Laura. “The work we do,” he says.

 

Laura tightens her fingers around her mug. “Security contracting.”

 

“Right.” There’s a beeping from behind him, and he turns to pour two mugs of coffee, dumping sugar into one and handing the other to Natasha. “Like you said. Six years. You’ve never asked what it means.”

 

“No.” She’s wanted to, but she’s been scared of the answer, and she can see from Clint’s face that he knows it. Defensively, she straightens her shoulders. “I’m not stupid,” she says. “I know that it’s probably something illegal, but you’re a good person, Clint, I know you are, you wouldn’t--”

 

Clint holds up a hand. “Easy,” he says, stopping her, and Laura bites her lip, forces herself to settle down in her chair. He takes a breath, sips his coffee, and she knows he’s buying time, looking for the right words. “It’s not all illegal,” he says finally. “But I won’t lie and say that none of it is. Nat and I, we’ve got a pretty specific skill set. The raising we got, it wasn’t exactly--normal.”

 

Natasha snorts at that, the first sign of humor Laura’s seen from her since the word _Yelena_ left her lips, though her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

 

Laura knows--she knows about Clint. He’s told her, in shaking whispers, in darkened rooms, about his father’s drinking, about the yelling and fighting and beatings, about the car accident that killed his parents. He’s told her about the Children’s Home, about running away to the circus, about learning to fight, to shoot, to throw knives and tumble like a gymnast. He’s told her about the day his brother Barney left him behind. He’s told her about the things he’s done to survive, things that made her heart clench and tears prickle at her eyes, but never made her judge him. She’s heard the self-deprecation in his voice, the way he talks about himself-- _I’m an orphan raised by carnies who dropped out of middle school, Laur, you really think I’m good enough for you?_ \--has spent night after night whispering to him that it doesn’t matter if he has a degree or a family, he has a good heart and kind eyes, and that has always been enough for her.

 

Natasha, though--Natasha, in so many ways, is still a mystery. Laura has pieced her story together by tiny fragments, and knows she’s still missing more than she’s learned. Natasha’s scars are white and pale and stretched with age; in bed, she sometimes catches Natasha rubbing her wrist and shaking until Clint circles it with his fingers and grips it tight until morning. She knows, from small comments and remarks that could only come from experience, that Natasha is much, much older than she looks, though she isn’t sure how that’s possible, and Clint won’t tell her. She sees Natasha’s speed, her grace, her balance; but she sees her fragility, too, the way she looks at Clint and Laura like they’re something precious that she doesn’t deserve, like they could be taken away at any moment, like she’ll blink and they’ll have been a dream.

 

(Sometimes she darts awake in the night, gasping, and she’ll grab at their hands, and when Laura asks her what’s wrong, what she needs, Natasha will cup Laura’s face in her hands, will dig her fingers into Clint’s arms so hard he’ll have bruises, and whisper, “I just need to make sure that you’re real.”)

 

“There aren’t that many career openings for people like us,” Clint says, and his voice is low and hesitant, unsure. He hasn’t looked like this with her in years, and it makes Laura’s heart ache, to know how many times Clint Barton has been left behind, to know that, even now, he doesn’t trust her to stay. “Security contracting...It’s industry code for assassination and infiltration work.”

 

Something cold settles in Laura’s stomach. She’s known in her heart for years that Clint’s work was violent and dark, but to hear the word _assassination_ , to connect it with Clint’s kind eyes and Natasha’s playful smile…

 

“Laura,” Natasha says, her voice a whisper. “Say something.”

 

Laura swallows once, and then again for good measure, to school her voice to calm. “What kind of people do you…”

 

“The kind the world’s better off without,” Clint says. His voice is steady, his gaze calm on hers, but not staring, not too fixated. He’s not lying.

 

“So you don’t…” Laura takes a deep breath. “No innocent people?”

 

“No,” Clint says.

 

“Yes,” Natasha says, at the same time.

 

Clint looks at her sharply. “Nat.”

 

Natasha shakes her head. “She deserves the truth.”

 

“That wasn’t you,” Clint says. “That was never who you are.”

 

Laura looks back and forth between them, at Natasha’s too-bright eyes, at Clint’s pleading expression. “What are you talking about?”

 

“The people who trained Natasha,” Clint says, holding Natasha’s eyes on his, “who started training her when she was _six_ \--they left marks on her, and they fucked with her head. They made her do things, told her she had to, and they left switches in her head that they could flip when they wanted.”

 

“I’ve hurt people, Laura,” Natasha says. Her voice is steady, but there’s anguish in it, sorrow and guilt and regret dripping so heavy that Laura wants to fold her in her arms and never let go. “The things I’ve done--”

 

“But they took you,” Laura says, her head spinning. “They--they took you. From your family?” Natasha nods, a tiny motion, her expression uncertain. “You were just a little girl, Tasha. Whatever you did, whatever they did to you--that’s not your fault.” Natasha opens her mouth to protest, but Laura pushes her mug of cocoa away, reaches for Natasha’s hands. “No, Tasha, listen. The kids I teach, they’re hurting, they’re so hurt. They have so much trauma--so many of them have seen so much violence, on the streets, in their homes, on their own bodies. The way they act, the things they do to each other--it’s enough to drive me crazy, but they’re not bad, they’re hurting. They’re doing what they do because they think it will make the pain go away.” Her eyes burn, and she blinks away tears. “The people who took you,” she says, her voice scraping hoarse in her throat. “Did they hurt you? To make you do what they wanted?”

 

Slowly, trembling, Natasha nods. Laura can see moisture brimming along her eyelashes. “They said the pain would make us stronger,” she whispers. “They said that it would teach us what to do. And if we did it right, if we were perfect, then we wouldn’t be punished. We had to be perfect for them. Always perfect.”

 

Laura’s heart breaks, and she glances at Clint, who is looking past her, his eyes fixed on Natasha’s. His face is impassive, but she can see the faint twitch in the muscles of his jaw, the one that means he wants something to hit but knows it’s far too late. His eyes are swimming with more emotions than she can name, love and anger and protectiveness and tenderness and care, and Natasha looks back, her eyes brimming with tears but her chin held high, pride and pain and fear and resolve, and Laura falls in love with him, with her, with both of them, just a little bit more. “You got away,” she says, and both of them turn their eyes to her. She swallows. “You must have. How did you do it?”

 

Natasha’s lips twitch. “I’m not sure you want to know.”

 

“She killed her handlers,” Clint says. Laura glances sharply at him. He sounds grim, but his lips are curved in a wicked smile that suggests that he would have liked to have done a bit of the killing himself.

 

“Not all of them,” Natasha says, but her smile is as sharp as Clint’s. She sobers, then, and looks at Laura. “It was the only way.”

 

“I believe you,” Laura says, and realizes with a start that the heat coursing in her veins is _anger_ , fierce and furious. “And they deserved it. I hope it hurt.”

 

Natasha blinks, looking surprised. “It did,” she says. Then, uncertainly, “You aren’t angry.”

 

Laura shakes her head. “No. Not with you, anyway.” She feels like she’s holding so many emotions in her heart that it could burst; she wishes she could go back in time and take both of them in her arms, protect them from everything in their lives that’s ever hurt them. She tries to picture Nat as a scared little girl with blood on her hands, and her stomach twists with rage. She has known, from the first time they ever touched, how much strength was clear in Natasha’s body, and now she finds herself glad that Natasha has learned to use it on her own terms. “What you do now,” she says. “Innocent people don’t get hurt?”

 

Clint shakes his head. “No collateral damage,” he says. There’s still some uncertainty in his face as he looks at her. “So you’re...okay with this? With what we do?”

 

Laura hesitates, trying to think about it. She’s grown up in a military family; she’s no stranger to violence--but she’s used to violence that operates in a system, with a code, with accountability.

 

But still. Still.

 

She knows Clint, knows, despite the callouses on his hands from bows and guns and the scars that scatter his skin, that he is gentle and kind; knows, despite the harsh hands that have shaped him, that he does not value force for its own sake. And she knows Natasha, too, even if it’s new and fragile--she knows that Natasha can bite with a sharp tongue and quick fists, that she is armed even when she seems like she isn’t, but she also knows that Natasha touches fresh flowers like they are something to be treasured, that she is tender and soft when her fingers brush a wound or a fevered forehead.

 

She has trusted Clint for years, and knows, deep down, that she’s trusted Natasha for years, too. And she knows, after years of tracing her fingers over Clint’s scars, after months of watching Natasha wake, frozen, from silent nightmares, that there are people in the world that shouldn’t be.

 

Clint’s voice, when it prompts her, is gentle, hesitant. “Laura?”

 

Laura takes a deep breath and looks at them, really looks at them, searching their faces for anything that would tell her not to trust them. She finds nothing, only open hope, uncertainty, love. “I want to know as much as it’s safe for you to tell me,” she says, and watches relief flood into their faces. “And I want you to always, _always_ come home to me.”

 

“Yes,” Clint says, immediately; at the same time that Natasha says, “One way or another.”

 

Laura nods. “Okay,” she says. There’s still tension in the room, but it’s looser than it was, as if a tightly-pulled line has just barely slackened. It’s not relaxed, by a long shot, but Laura can feel in her skin that something big has changed between them, that her acceptance means more than either of them will say. “Okay,” she says, and then glares, sharply, at Natasha, just for good measure. “And you,” she says, “don’t _ever_ let me catch you thinking that you’re not worth something, or that I won’t want you, because of something someone else did to you. I don’t care _what_ those people tried to make you into. What matters is the person you are now, and the Tasha you are now might be imperfect, but you’re perfect to _me_.”

 

Natasha’s cheeks flush a faint pink. She opens her mouth, but doesn’t say anything, and after an uncertain moment, she closes it.

 

Clint grins. “Wow,” he says. His tone is deceptively light, but Laura can see the emotions on his face, can hear them in his voice. “You got Tasha speechless. That’s tough work, Laur.”

 

“Don’t think you’re off the hook, either,” she tells him, reaching across the counter to punch him lightly in the arm. He shoots her an injured look, then smiles and flashes the ever-cheesy _I love you_ sign at her. Laura rolls her eyes, leans over to kiss his cheek gently and Natasha’s temple far less gently, ruffling Natasha’s curls just enough to jostle the other woman into making a face at her, and then sits back. “Now,” she says. “Make another pot of coffee, and tell me about this new job.”

 

**2015**

 

The New Avengers Training Facility gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, all glass and chrome and clean-cut lines, bright enough that Clint actually brought a hand up to shade his eyes as he climbed out of the car.

 

Ducking out of the driver’s side, Tony Stark snorted. “Too bright for those sensitive elf-eyes, Legolas?”

 

Clint flipped him off. “These sensitive elf-eyes have saved your ass more than once, Stark,” he said, peering up at the complex. “It’s a hell of a place, though.”

 

“I’d hope so, for the cash I put into it.” Despite his flippant tone, the pride was clear in Stark’s voice as he followed Clint’s gaze. “You oughta bring the kiddies by for a visit. Does that wife of yours ever get a vacation?”

 

“‘Course she does,” Clint said. “The kids go to Laura’s parents’ place to get spoiled rotten, and I take Laura somewhere sunny where she gets to order the kind of drinks that soak up my whole paycheck. Thank God SHIELD paid its operatives well.”

 

Stark looked at him, flicking his sunglasses lower on his nose. “Laura’s got parents?”

 

Clint raised an eyebrow. “She didn’t hatch from an egg.”

 

“No, it’s just--” Stark shook his head. “It’s all that normality. If anyone was gonna have it, I didn’t think it’d be you.”

 

“It’s all Laura,” Clint said helpfully, clapping him on the shoulder. “I grew up in the circus and my main maternal figure was a bearded lady.”

 

Stark looked thoughtful. “You know, that actually makes me feel better.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Hey, is the bearded lady why you--”

 

“Before you say whatever you’re about to say,” Clint said, narrowing his eyes, “Remember that I can kill you in sixteen ways using only my sunglasses.”

 

Stark’s mouth snapped shut with an audible _click_. Clint laughed, and Stark grinned. “So, you want the tour?”

 

Inside the gates, the complex was as impressive and shiny as anything designed under Tony Stark’s watchful eye. It was more tasteful than the Tower, though, more utilitarian, and looking around Clint could see the influence that Steve and Rhodes must have had on the lines of sight, the width of the hallways. “Looks good,” he commented, stepping back to let a line of SHIELD recruits jog by. Mindful of Nat’s comments in the car on their way to the airport, he refused to let himself judge their form. “Where’re the kids this time of day?”

 

“Normally they’d be in the gym,” Stark said, glancing at a clock mounted on the wall. “But looking at this week’s adventures--”

 

“I gave them some shore leave,” Steve interrupted, rounding a corner striding down the hall towards them, Maria Hill close on his heels. He grinned at Clint, holding out his hand, and Clint clasped it. “Barton. Good to see you in person.”

 

“Same, Cap.” Clint gave Steve a quick once-over out of habit, looking for any injury or sign of weariness, even though the Avengers hadn’t been called out since Ultron, and Steve likely wouldn’t have shown any wear or tear even if they had. He looked healthy and comfortable, dressed in workout pants and a t-shirt. Only his eyes, old in his young face, showed any signs of stress. He nodded at Hill. “Maria.”

 

“Barton.” Like Steve, she was dressed in civilian clothing, not a SHIELD uniform. It caught Clint off-guard but he took it in stride, along with the way her eyes automatically swept him for weapons or wounds. Good old Hill. “What do you think of the place?”

 

“It’s impressive,” Clint admitted, and couldn’t help a smile at the pleased look of pride that flickered across both Stark and Hill’s faces. _That_ didn’t surprise him. He turned back to Steve. “So,” he said. “Shore leave?”

 

Steve gave a wry smile. “Well, Rhodes and Sam took a fishing trip,” he said. His expression sobered. “Until Wanda’s back under control, we can’t do much with team training.”

 

Clint nodded, silently grateful to have an end to the small talk. “That’s why I’m here.”

 

“I was wondering about that,” Stark said mildly. “I thought Romanoff was Wanda’s big sister these days.”

 

Clint shot him a sharp look. “Nat earned her time off,” he said. “And let’s leave off the sibling jokes.”

 

Stark, to his credit, had the good graces to wince. “Point.” He shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet, the only sign of his discomfort, and said, “Still. Doesn’t explain why she sent you.”

 

Clint hesitated.

 

What could he tell them? That from the first moment in South Africa, he’d looked into the Maximoff twins’ haunted eyes and seen his own past looking back at him? That he’d seen echoes of Lila’s wicked humor in Pietro’s smirk, of Cooper’s quiet intelligence in Wanda’s dark eyes? That for a moment, in that blown-out building in Sokovia where he and Wanda had taken shelter, that he’d had to fight every paternal instinct in his body that had wanted to tell her to stay put, stay safe, that everything would be okay?

 

That as Pietro had crumpled, bleeding and broken, to the ground, Clint’s wild, horrified first thought had been _no, no, no, it should have been me_?

 

“Nat thought it’d be a good idea,” he said finally, not the whole truth, but not a lie, either.

 

Steve held his gaze for a moment, his face thoughtful and calculating, and then he nodded. “Good enough for me,” he said. “Come on. She’s down this way.”

 

They set off down the hallway. As they walked, Hill flipped through her tablet, and then passed it to Clint. “This is the security footage from the incident,” she said, her voice dropping so immediately into _mission mode_ that Clint had to suppress a smile as he took the tablet. “The team was training in the gym when it happened.”

 

Clint trusted the people around him to steer him if he was going to walk into anything, and concentrated on the footage. It was security-cam quality, but in a Stark facility, that was sharper than most. Wanda was sparring with Sam on a training mat, Steve and Rhodes and Vision close by. Clint gauged her form thoughtfully--it was clear she was still learning hand-to-hand, but he could see that there was raw talent in her movements, and he was willing to bet, judging from her reaction time, that her powers gave her a bit of insight into what Sam was going to do next.

 

The match ended amicably enough; Sam taking Wanda down to the mat with a carefully-aimed kick to her ankles, but catching her hands before she struck the ground. He said something that made her smile as he helped her up, patted her on the back--and then everything went to shit.

 

A pulse of red energy left Wanda’s body, spreading throughout the gym, and Clint winced at the sudden screams through the tablet’s speakers. People dropped to their knees and curled on the ground, Sam hit the floor hard, prone and shaking, even Steve staggered. Vision moved swiftly to Wanda’s side--she was on her hands and knees, visibly sobbing--and put his hands on her shoulders. Another wave of red pulsed through the room, and the noise slowly died, but Clint could see that the room was still in chaos. He handed the tablet back to Hill. “What was the energy?”

 

“Grief,” Steve said quietly. Clint looked at him, and could see the exhaustion in his eyes. “It was like a wave of it, like it took you back to the moment you felt the worst loss of your life. Hit everybody hard.”

 

Clint didn’t press him. “Looks like Vision got her out of it.”

 

“Yeah. Something about that stone let him get through to her.” Steve scrubbed a hand over his face, an expression of weariness that Clint knew he didn’t usually let people see. “But we don’t know what triggered her, and something like that in the field…”

 

“Would be a disaster,” Clint finished for him. He frowned, rolling the footage back and watching it more carefully. Nothing during the sparring match--Wanda’s expression was focused and concentrating, nothing to suggest she was about to crack. Even when Sam took her down, he saw her give a small, self-deprecating laugh, taking his hands and letting him pull her up. Then Sam put his hand on her back, and-- “There it is,” Clint announced, pausing the clip and turning the tablet around so the others could see. “Right there, when Sam puts his hand on her.”

 

Steve took the tablet from him, frowning. “Why would that--”

 

“Pietro used to do it,” Clint said. “I saw it once or twice, when we were prepping to head to Sokovia. It was a grounding thing for them. But that was the trigger.”

 

Steve watched the clip again, and then huffed out a small laugh. “We don’t call you Hawkeye for nothing,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips as he handed the tablet back to Hill. “We miss having those eyes of yours.”

 

“You’ll have to keep missing them,” Clint said, managing to only feel a twinge of regret. “And you might have to miss Wanda a bit, too.”

 

“You’re taking her back with you?”

 

“If she’ll come,” Clint said. “The fresh air might do her some good.”

 

Steve cocked an eyebrow at him. “Is that the only reason?”

 

Clint opened his mouth to reply, but Stark cut him off. “He needs someone else to milk the cows,” he quipped. “Getting too old for those early mornings, Barton?”

 

“I’ve got brothers-in-law for that,” Clint said mildly, just to watch the surprise dart across Stark’s face.

 

“How much family do you have stashed away out there in the boonies, anyway?”

 

Clint grinned. “It’s all Laura’s family,” he said. “I just married into it.” He ran a hand through his hair, mentally marking the next turn they took, just as he had with the others. “Did you make this place enough of a maze?”

 

Stark returned the grin. “It’s a hobby.”

 

Steve stopped short, and Clint nearly walked into him. “Cap?” he asked, concerned, but Steve held up a hand, his other going to his ear. Clint mentally kicked himself for not realizing that Steve was on comms, and then tensed as Steve’s shoulders went rigid. “We got a problem?”

 

“Something like that,” Steve said tersely, turning around. “Wanda’s gone.”

 

**2002**

 

“So help me,” Laura says from the doorway, “if you try to get out of that bed one more time, I will tie you to it.”

 

Natasha raises her eyebrows at her. “Not exactly a disincentive,” she says, but abandons her attempt to ease her way out of bed, wincing as her bad leg pulls with the motion. It takes a lot to ground the Black Widow, but a torn meniscus will apparently do it. “How was work?”

 

Laura shrugs, coming into the bedroom with two mugs of tea. She hands one to Natasha and then climbs up onto the bed, fussing gently with the pillows under Natasha’s knee to better support it. “Work was fine. Kids remain both adorable and out of their minds. Did you take your meds?”

 

“Yes, I took my meds.” The antibiotics probably aren’t necessary, given her enhanced immune system, but she doesn’t want to take any chances with a post-surgical infection. She shifts slightly to look at Laura, who has curled up beside her, both hands curled around her mug, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. She’s looking down into her mug, a furrow in her brow, and Natasha raises her eyebrows. “Hey,” she says, reaching over to curl a lock of Laura’s hair around her finger. “What’s up?”

 

Laura chews her bottom lip. For a few moments, Natasha thinks maybe she’s worried about Clint--he’s on a job in India, tracking down a human trafficker in Mumbai. It should be low-risk, but with Clint, things rarely go according to plan, and Natasha knows what it’s like to fret over him. But instead, Laura says, “There’s this little girl in one of my classes.”

 

Natasha tilts her head to one side. Laura has a depth of caring for her students that Natasha can’t pretend to understand--but then again, Natasha’s teachers were nothing like Laura. “And?”

 

“I’m worried about her.” Laura shifts, putting her tea down on the bedside table and pulling her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. Her eyes are distant, not looking at the wall but somewhere else, far away. “She’s been so distracted lately, and she’s having so much trouble focusing in class. She always looks like she’s going to cry.”

 

“Have you asked her what’s going on?” It seems like a stupid question, but Natasha’s not quite sure what else to say.

 

Laura nods. “She won’t tell me,” she says, sounding miserable.

 

Words don’t seem like they could be helpful now, and even if they were, Natasha doesn’t know which ones she’d choose. The years of training meant to teach her to never feel at a loss for words seem to fail her when she’s confronted with the simple compassion that Laura has for children who aren’t even hers. Even after ten years of being with Clint and almost two with Laura, she finds herself speechless when it comes to words of emotional support. Instead, she puts her tea down and holds out her arms. Laura moves into them instantly, burrowing her head into Natasha’s shoulder. Natasha bends her head to rest her chin against Laura’s hair, breathing in the sweet smell of her lavender conditioner. “Hey,” she says. “Is this about...more than just this kid?”

 

Laura’s quiet for a moment, her arms around Natasha’s waist. One of her hands has slipped under Natasha’s sweater, her thumb stroking absently over the skin of Natasha’s hipbone. It’s a casual, thoughtful touch, and Natasha allows it. “I keep thinking about everything you two have told me,” she says finally, her voice soft. “About all of the things that happened to you when you were kids. And all I can think is--what if someone had noticed? They say that it only takes one caring adult to help a kid out of an awful situation, to at least make it _better_.” She glances up at Natasha. “I mean, I’m pretty sure that none of my kids are being brainwashed into super-spies, but...how many of them might be going through something terrible right now? And I want to help them, I want to help _all_ of them, but if they don’t tell me…”

 

She trails off, her voice thick and tearful, pushing her face into Natasha’s sweater. Natasha tightens her arms around her and rubs her back, thinking. The Red Room had kept their girls well-secluded, but she knows that Clint had been in and out of the system for years--schools, the children’s home, circus stops where plenty of people had seen his face. Someone with Laura’s caring might have pulled him aside, might have seen his bruises and his hollowed eyes and asked more questions.

 

But she knows, too, how little trust Clint had had in adults. The night they had met, he had looked at Natasha with haunted eyes, dark with suspicion, demanded to know what she had wanted from him. He’s told her, in shaking whispers, about lying to the social workers who asked him and Barney questions in the hospital, about making up excuses for his bruises to his teachers. He called it loyalty, even if his voice had been tinged with anger and regret, but Natasha knows what he means. Even when she’d made the decision to leave the Red Room behind, it had taken her years to actually make the move. Family, however twisted, was a powerful thing. “She might not be ready to tell someone,” she says finally, stroking Laura’s hair. “It can be a hard thing, to ask for help.”

 

Laura doesn’t lift her head. “What if she never asks for it?”

 

Natasha thinks about that, tries to find an answer that won’t break Laura’s heart. She knows what can happen to little girls who keep secrets. But then, she thinks, maybe Laura is wrong. Maybe this girl is simply having a bad week, a bad month. “You do what you’re doing,” she says simply. “You’re there for her, you ask her if she’s okay. You offer the help that you can give. If she wants it, if she’s ready, she’ll take it.”

 

Laura shifts against her, finally lifting her head enough to look at Natasha. Her eyes are bright and damp, and Natasha brushes her thumbs gently over her eyelashes, smoothing the teardrops away. “I just wish I could make everything better,” Laura says.

 

Her gaze flickers down to Natasha’s knee, still propped on the pillow, and _oh_ , Natasha thinks, _oh_. “Laura,” she says, cupping Laura’s face in her hands. “Laura, you do so much. You help us so much. Just because you aren’t out there fighting with us doesn’t mean that you’re not helping.”

 

Laura’s fingertips brush hesitantly over the brace on Natasha’s knee. “It scares me,” she says softly, her lips trembling slightly. “Every time one of you is hurt, every time you leave, all I think about is waiting for the call. And when you’re out together, I get so scared, because if something happened, there wouldn’t _be_ anyone to call, and I would just be here, waiting, and--and--”

 

Her face crumples, her body curling in. “Oh, oh, oh,” Natasha whispers, and pulls her into her arms again, letting Laura cling to her as Natasha holds her tight. “Oh, Laura, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” She feels like an idiot for not realizing, for not connecting the utter relief in Laura’s voice when Natasha calls from a burner phone on a job to the constant fear she must have been feeling the rest of the time. “We’ll come up with something, okay? Some kind of system, check-ins, or something. We’ll figure it out. You’ll get a call.”

 

A sniffle is muffled in her shoulder, and Natasha turns her head, kisses the top of Laura’s. “We’ll find a way to make sure you get the call, honey,” she murmurs. “I promise. You won’t be left wondering.”

 

Laura makes a sound that sounds suspiciously like a sob, her fingers clenching in the fabric of Natasha’s sweater. “Or just don’t die,” she says, her voice mostly muffled. She lifts her head, her face tear-streaked and red, and looks up at Natasha with too-bright eyes. “Please?”

 

Natasha leans forward and kisses her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, and then pulls her back into her arms. “I’ll do my best,” she promises, and then quirks a grin. “Maybe I’ll even keep that idiot of ours in one piece, too.”

 

Laura’s laugh is tearful but honest, her arms locking tight around Natasha’s. Natasha kisses the top of her head, picks up the novel she’d abandoned on the bedside table when she’d heard Laura come into the apartment, and reads Russian poetry to her until she feels Laura fall asleep, nestled against her side.

 

**2015**

 

Natasha rubbed her temples, trying to ward off a building tension headache. “Lila Ruth Barton,” she said firmly. “You have exactly ten seconds to get into your pajamas, or we are not having story time tonight.”

 

Lila crossed her arms over her chest, glaring up at her. “I don’t want to wear pajamas,” she said. “I want to wear my princess dress.”

 

“If you wear your princess dress, you’re going to get glitter all over your sheets, and that’s not fair to your mom,” Natasha said, and then mentally kicked herself for letting herself get dragged into a power struggle with a six-year-old. “I’m serious, Lila, I’m going to count to ten--”

 

Laura walked by the open door, bouncing a fussing Nate in her arms, and stopped in the doorway. “Lila,” she said. “Why aren’t you in your PJs?”

 

Lila shot her a stubborn look. “I don’t want to wear PJs. I want to wear my princess dress.”

 

“You can wear your _Frozen_ nightgown,” Laura said. “And if you are in bed with your teeth brushed in the next five minutes, you can listen to _Let it Go_ before you get your bedtime story.” Lila hesitated. “Four and a half minutes,” Laura said, and Lila dove into her dresser, came up with a bright blue nightgown, and then scampered down the hall to the bathroom.

 

A moment later, Natasha heard the sounds of toothbrushing, and sighed, climbing to her feet. “Thanks,” she said wearily. “I was running out of ideas.”

 

“They’re always at their worst right after Clint leaves,” Laura said, sitting down on Lila’s bed and adjusting Nate in his sling, slipping her pinky finger into his mouth. He quieted. “I told Cooper that if he was going to act like he was his sister’s age, he’d be treated like he was her age and would lose all sorts of privileges. That got him into his PJs with a book pretty quick.”

 

Natasha snorted. “I would like to reiterate how much harder your job is than ours.”

 

Laura cocked an eyebrow. “Right.”

 

“No, really,” Natasha said. “Getting people to do what you want is easy when you can take off their fingernails. It’s a lot harder when you want to both keep them in one piece _and_ not psychologically scar them.”

 

“I very much appreciate you not psychologically scarring the children,” Laura said dryly, smiling up at her. “If it makes you feel any better, Lila’s got all of Clint’s stubbornness. She even tries my patience sometimes.”

 

“I can shoot Clint,” Natasha pointed out. Laura laughed.

 

“Point.”

 

Lila scampered back into the room, dressed in a nightgown and magenta socks, her braid-crimped hair flying loose around her shoulders. “I brushed,” she said, jumping up onto the bed. “And I flossed.”

 

Laura smiled, her face softening, and Natasha felt a curl of warmth in her lower belly. “Thank you, baby girl,” she said. “Do you want to listen to your song?”

 

Lila shook her head, burrowing under her blankets. “No,” she said. Her earlier mood seemed to have dissipated; she was quieter now, her eyes more solemn. “Will you read to me?”

 

“Of course, honey.” Laura shifted Nate and leaned back with Lila. “Do you want me to read, or Auntie Nat?”

 

Before Lila could answer, Natasha’s phone rang in the master bedroom. Natasha made a face, leaning over to kiss Lila’s cheek. “Mommy will read to you tonight, my love,” she murmured. “I’ll come back to kiss you goodnight.”

 

“Okay.” Lila hugged her tight. “I love you.”

 

Natasha returned the hug. “I love you, too.” She still struggled to say the words to Laura or Clint, but if love was for children, then the words could be, too. She kissed Lila’s nose again, brushed her fingertips over Nate’s head, and went down the hallway, answering her phone just before it went to voicemail. “Romanoff.”

 

“Hey, Nat.”

 

Clint sounded exhausted. Natasha frowned, sitting down on the bed. “You okay?”

 

“Long day. Wanda rabbited.”

 

Natasha swore under her breath. “It’s a closed compound. She couldn’t have gone far.”

 

“I’d guess she’s staying on the move.” Clint’s voice was muffled; Natasha was willing to bet he was rubbing a hand over his face and then back through his hair. “She hasn’t used her powers on anyone, as far as I can tell.”

 

“That’s good.” Natasha rubbed her forehead. Definitely a tension headache. “I don’t know why she’d run like that. I thought she was doing better.”

 

“She accidentally used her powers on a whole room of people, Nat. All she did was hit them with--well, it basically sounds like an empathy wave; made all of them feel what she was feeling. But it could have been a hell of a lot worse. She’s a smart kid, she probably knows that as well as we do.”

 

He sounded like he was moving. Natasha frowned. “Clint? What are you doing?”

 

“Climbing,” he said, a small grunt escaping from him. “Connected my phone to my comm. Hope you don’t mind.”

 

“What are you climbing?”

 

“Air ducts.” Clint huffed out a laugh. “You’d think Stark’d know better than to make air ducts big enough for a person to climb through, but there you go.”

 

Natasha rolled her eyes. “ _Why_ are you in the air ducts?”

 

“Got a hunch.” Clint was quiet for a few moments. “How are the kids?”

 

“Not happy. They’ve been in a mood all day.”

 

Clint sighed. “I knew that’d happen. How’s Laura doing with it?”

 

“Better than me. But she’s used to it.” Clint hummed slightly in response, and Natasha leaned back against the pillows. “Clint,” she said quietly. “Are you sure she wants to be found?”

 

“Course she doesn’t,” Clint said. “But hey, neither do I half the time I’m off licking my wounds.”

 

“She could kill you,” Natasha said.

 

“She won’t.” Clint’s voice was soft and certain. It was a familiar tone, and Natasha frowned for a moment, trying to place where she’d heard it before. When she did, she had to suppress a snort of laughter--it was the same voice he used when talking about one of his kids. Natasha shook her head, amused. Whether Clint had realized it or not, he’d adopted Wanda in his head. “Look, I’m going to try and get through to her, try to get her to come back to the farm. Will you talk to the kids for me? Give them the heads up of what to expect?”

 

Natasha hesitated. Part of her was still more than a little uncertain about bringing Wanda here. She’d joined the Avengers, but Natasha had her doubts about her loyalties. To bring her to the farm, with Laura and the kids...It made her more than a little nervous.

 

Then again, she herself had been just as volatile when Clint had brought her back after what had happened in Moscow, and Clint hadn’t thought twice before walking her off the jet and up the porch steps, pushing her down into the sofa and dumping Cooper, two and a half and delighted at her presence, into her lap. Maybe Wanda needed the same thing--simple, home-grown affection, wrapped in the smells of a well-loved farmhouse. “I’ll tell them.”

 

“Thanks, Nat.” There was a rustling, and then, “I gotta go. Tell Laura and the kids I love them, okay? I’ll call tomorrow morning with an update.”

 

Natasha swallowed. “You got it,” she said. “Be careful.”

 

“Always am. And, Nat?”

 

She paused. “Yeah?”

 

“I’m lucky,” he said, “to have you.”

 

Natasha closed her eyes, smiling. “Yes,” she said. “You are.”

 

Clint laughed, disconnecting the call. Natasha got to her feet, slipping her phone into the pocket of her jeans just in case someone called back, and headed back down the hallway to Lila’s room, where she could still hear Laura’s soft voice, reading the familiar words of _The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh_. She paused for a moment outside the door to relax herself, then slipped into the room.

 

Laura was at the head of the bed with Lila, Nate still in his sling across her chest. Lila was curled against her, her head nestled on Laura’s breast, one of Laura’s hands combing gently through Lila’s hair. Lila looked up as Natasha entered, a sleepy smile spreading across her face. “Auntie Nat,” she said happily, waving one hand. “We’re reading about the blustery day.”

 

“Are we?” Natasha smiled, coming to sit beside them. Laura reached into the sling and passed Nate across to Natasha, and Natasha took him easily in her arms, bending her head to breathe in the baby-soft smell of him. She scooted closer to them, leaning back against the wall. “That sounds wonderful.”

 

Laura smiled at her, slipped her arm around Lila’s shoulders, and picked up the book again.

 

**2003**

 

The job goes off easily enough, and Clint comes away from it without even needing stitches. He collapses his bow and packs it away into his duffle bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and heads out of the parking garage, dialing Nat’s number by memory as he walks.

 

Laura answers. “Hello?”

 

Clint grins. “Hello, gorgeous.”

 

“Clint!” She raises her voice. “Tasha, Clint’s on the phone!” She comes back, her voice breathless. “Hold on, let me put you on speaker.”

 

There’s a rustling--Clint waits, patiently, trying not to grin like an idiot--and then Natasha’s voice, a bit more distant, says, “Clint?”

 

“Hey, Nat.”  


“All in one piece?”

 

Her voice is casual, but Clint knows better. “Everything’s still where it’s supposed to be,” he says. “Don’t even need stitches this time.”

 

Natasha snorts. “I’m impressed.”

 

“ _Tasha_ ,” Laura says, sounding far less amused. “Clint, you’re really okay?”

 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Cuts and bruises, nothing serious.” He glances both ways and heads across the street, making his way back to his hotel. “What have you two been up to?”

 

“Well, Natasha’s been maintaining a truly horrifying amount of weaponry--”

 

“All of which is entirely necessary--”

 

“And spending an equally horrifying amount of money on shoes--”

 

“Also necessary--”

 

Clint manages to keep his laughter silent as he listens to them banter, trudging down the street. He likes how comfortable with each other they are, how easily this sort of talk comes to them now. They’ve had their rough patches over the past few years, settling into routines that work between the three of them, but it feels like they’ve got it figured out now. The biggest down side--in Clint’s view, anyway--is that he and Nat take fewer and fewer jobs together, opting instead to take more solo jobs so that one of them, at least, is home with Laura.

 

It’s been a rough adjustment. He’s gotten spoiled, he knows, having Nat as his right hand all these years, and going back to primarily working solo has meant more rough nights, more long hours. His paranoia’s gone up since losing his ears, and even with the aids, he doesn’t sleep much without Nat watching his back.

 

“...And those of us who actually work a day job for a living end up doing the dishes. Clint, are you there?”

 

Laura’s voice is gently chiding, and Clint winces. “Right here, babe,” he says, rounding a corner. He glances up at the street sign to make sure he’s on the right street, nods in satisfaction, and keeps going in that direction. “It sounds like you two are getting along fine without me.”

 

“We always do,” Natasha says dryly.

 

“Ouch, Nat.”

 

“Doesn’t mean we don’t miss you when you’re gone,” Natasha says, in a much warmer voice.

 

Clint grins. “Someone’s gotta handle all the plumbing and electric, right?”

 

Laura laughs. “Clint, you almost broke the entire _apartment_ the last time you tried to fix the sink.”

 

“That was one time,” he says defensively, but it’s mostly just to hear her laugh. He’d say just about anything to hear Laura’s laugh. “What’s the fridge look like?”

 

“Full enough,” Natasha says.

 

“Why?” Laura asks, sounding suddenly excited. “Are you coming home?”

 

“Job wrapped up early,” Clint says. “Gonna try to get a plane tomorrow.”

 

Laura makes a delighted sound that borders hilariously on a squeal, and Clint laughs along with Natasha. “We’ll have the fridge stocked for you with all your disgusting man-foods when you get home tomorrow, Barton,” Natasha says. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to what I was doing before you called, which was making our little Laura here squirm.”

 

“Low blow, Nat,” Clint complains, but they’re both laughing, and he catches Laura’s “love you!” before the line goes dead. He rolls his eyes, slipping his phone back into his pocket, and goes into the hotel bar to get himself a drink.

 

The bar is nicer than the ones he usually frequents, and so’s the hotel--both necessary to maintain his cover for this job. He drops his duffel in his room, splashes some water on his face, and heads back downstairs, settling himself down on one of the plush stools. The bartender cocks an eyebrow at the scratch on Clint’s cheekbone but gets a lot friendlier when Clint orders a top-shelf whiskey, bringing it to him with a coaster blazoned with the hotel’s logo. Clint tilts his glass at him, taking a sip and relaxing down into his seat.

 

“Hard day at the office, Mr. Barton?”

 

It’s only years of practice that keep Clint from going utterly rigid--and from reaching for one of the weapons concealed under his suit. He glances at the man who’d spoken, regarding him calmly over the rim of his glass.

 

The man looks like he’s in his late thirties or early forties, white and dark-haired, with forgettable features and a placid smile. Clint sweeps his eyes over him and estimates that he’s armed, likely far more dangerous than his friendly blue eyes would suggest, and, judging from his non-descript black suit, almost definitely government. “Sorry,” he says, not bothering to pretend he’s not who the guy thinks he is--if they’ve already found him, there’s no point in playing stupid. “You’ve got the advantage of me.”

 

“My apologies, Mr. Barton. My name is Phil Coulson.”

 

“Cheers, Agent Coulson.” Clint salutes him with his glass.

 

Faint surprise flickers in the other man’s gaze, and Clint mentally congratulates himself. Coulson recovers himself quickly. “What brings you out to Seattle, Mr. Barton?”

 

“C’mon, Coulson, let’s not bother with the small talk.” Clint thinks of the phone in his jacket pocket, wonders if Coulson’ll let him call the girls to say goodbye. “You here to take me in?”

 

Coulson smiles, friendly and non-threatening. “No, Mr. Barton, I’m not. I’m here to offer you a job.”

 

Clint cocks an eyebrow. “Really,” he says.

 

“Really,” Coulson confirms. He signals to the bartender for two more whiskeys. Clint watches the bartender pour from the bottle, then takes the glass from him and pours its contents into the glass he’d already been drinking from, waiting for Coulson to drink. Coulson sips from his glass, and then gives Clint an amused smile. “You think I’d drug you?”

 

“Guys in bars have done worse,” Clint says with a shrug, taking a sip. “So’ve government men. You’ll forgive me if I’m a little wary.”

 

Coulson inclines his head. “Fair enough,” he says. Clint waits, patiently, and Coulson takes another sip of his drink. “You’ve been on our radar for quite some time, Mr. Barton,” he says, taking a manila file from a briefcase on the stool next to him and pushing it across the bar to Clint. “My organization first got wind of you back when you were with the circus. Corson’s, was it?”

 

“Carson’s,” Clint says. “Don’t bullshit me like you don’t know that file backwards and forwards.” He pushes the file back towards Coulson.

 

“You don’t want to read it?”

 

“Pretty sure I lived it.” Clint takes another swig, feels the whiskey burn down his throat. “What’s a government agency doing offering a contract killer a job?”

 

Coulson finishes his whiskey and motions for another. “You’ve got a very specific skillset, Mr. Barton,” he says. “But you’re careful about where you use it.” He pulls the file back, flips through it. “All your kills--with the exception of a few from your youth, which we’re willing to chock up to poor choice in mentors--have been the sort of people who would have turned up on our mission list soon enough anyway. Most of them were already on our radar, some of them you took right out from under ops we already had planned.”

 

“I’ll send you an invoice,” Clint says. “I don’t do government work.”

 

Coulson raises his eyebrows. “I’m sure you’re aware that vigilantism is illegal, Mr. Barton,” he says. “As is murder, the last time I looked.”

 

Clint shrugs. “So’s jaywalking, but no one outside of LA tends to care.” He downs the rest of his drink, and pulls a twenty out of his wallet, dropping it onto the bar. “I’ll see you around, Coulson.”

 

“Barton.”

 

Coulson’s voice is firm enough to stop Clint in his tracks. He holds himself still, waiting for Coulson to walk around to stand in front of him. They’re the same height, but Coulson carries himself in a way that makes him look both unthreatening and imposing at once. It’s a nifty trick, and if he were anyone else, Clint’d ask how he managed it. As it is, he waits, quietly, for Coulson to speak.

 

“This offer isn’t going to come around often,” Coulson said quietly. “I have orders from my superiors to bring you in, and they trust my calls enough to give me some discretion on just how I do that. But they won’t let you run around killing people on your own terms forever. Eventually, I’ll have to take you out.”

 

Clint grins. Coulson might look unassuming, but Clint’s had his share of government encounters, and Coulson’s got _secret badass_ written all over him. “Well, Coulson, that’ll be a fight I’ll look forward to.”

 

He starts to move away, but Coulson catches his arm, holding out a business card. “Here,” he says. “Just in case you change your mind.”

 

Clint takes the card, raising one eyebrow. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, but Coulson’s already striding away, back into the slowly muddling hotel crowd. It’s only Clint’s sharp eyes that let him track the man’s progress out through the revolving doors in the lobby.

 

He shakes his head, looking down at the card. _Phillip J. Coulson, Agent_ , it reads. The insignia in the upper-left of the card is a stylized eagle with a pennant that reminds Clint of Captain America’s shield--and Clint snorts when he looks at the name of the agency. _Someone sure wanted a certain set of initials_ , he thinks, and opens his wallet, stuffs the card into one of the flaps. He stores his wallet back in his pocket and reaches for his cell phone. “Change of plans,” he says when Natasha answers, already heading up the stairs to his room. “I’m coming home tonight.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings this chapter: discussion of child violence, child abuse, community violence; implicit mention of trauma symptoms including nightmares, flashbacks, and hypervigilance. Also, casual discussion of parents wishing they could strangle their kids. In a normal parenting sort of way, but I'll tag for it anyway.
> 
> I want to just shout out to everyone who has been leaving comments on this fic--your words are absolutely the motivation that keeps me posting when I want to just let the writer's block hit me over the head, and the sweet things you have said are absolutely so kind and wonderful. Thanks as always to [deb](http://debz0rz.tumblr.com) for proof-reading so amazingly at the drop of a hat (seriously peeps, homegirl had this read and edited like fifteen minutes after I told her it was done), and to everyone who drops me messages over at [my tumblr](http://geniusorinsanity.tumblr.com). You are the best readers around! :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one. In exchange for making you wait, you get some extra feelings. Yay!
> 
> Special shoutout to [MelyndaR](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MelyndaR/pseuds/MelyndaR) for catching a totally embarrassing addition error on the last chapter that both me and my beta reader missed, and for kindly letting me know. Thank you for your sharp eyes! :) Guys, if you ever catch little consistency errors, please please tell me about them! Sometimes I miss stuff, and I always feel better once they're fixed. :)
> 
> See end of chapter for content warnings.

**2015**

 

Clint eased himself carefully through the air shaft, moving toward the faint sound of sniffling. Shifting through an air vent wasn’t nearly as smooth as it used to be-- _really gotta get back on those morning runs, Barton_ , he thought--and he winced as he squeezed around a corner, thanking his lucky stars he hadn’t tried to bring a bow with him.

 

The next turn led him out into the elevator shaft, and the sound of sniffling got louder as he poked his head out into the shaft, peering into the semi-darkness. Pale blue lighting lined the walls and Clint blinked a few times to orient himself to it, then looked down.

 

The nearest elevator was about a floor below him, and Wanda was curled on top of it, her knees hugged to her chest. Clint cleared his throat quietly. “Wanda?”

 

Wanda’s head snapped up, her eyes glowing a fierce red as she swiped her hands across her cheeks and raised them defensively. When she saw him, though, her lips parted. “You,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Looking for you.” He folded his arms and pillowed his chin on them. “You went missing. People got worried.” He studied her in the wan light. Her face and lips were pale, and dark shadows under her eyes gave her a gaunt look. “Is it okay if I come down there?”

 

She looked at him warily, her expression caught somewhere between uncertainty and suspicion. After a long moment, she nodded.

 

“Okay. Thanks.” Clint gauged the distance down to her and then, moving carefully, pulled himself out of the shaft and dropped the eight or so feet down to the elevator, landing in a crouch with a huff of air. He gave himself a mental pat on the bat to being able to land as lightly at forty-four as he had at twenty-four (or at least at thirty-four), and settled down cross-legged across from her. “Hi,” he said.

 

Wanda didn’t respond, just watched him with large eyes, the red glow fading away to reveal her natural blue. Clint slipped off the thin pack he’d been wearing, pulling out a bottle of water. “Here.” She didn’t reach for it, and Clint sighed. “Wanda,” he said patiently. “Your lips are cracked, you’re shaking, and you look like you’re going to keel over. You’re dehydrated. Take the water.” He rummaged around in the pack, coming up with a banana and a protein bar, and held those out in his other hand. “These, too. You need to eat.”

 

She shook her head, pulling her oversized sweater more tightly around her shoulders, a hint of stubbornness flickering into her shadowed eyes. “I don’t want it,” she said, voice hoarse.

 

Clint narrowed his eyes. “I don’t care,” he said sternly. “Take it.” He didn’t leave room for argument. Wanda hesitated another moment, and then reached out a trembling hand for the water bottle, fumbling with the cap before raising it to her lips. “Not all at once,” he said, more gently now, and she nodded, taking slow, careful sips.

 

He sat quietly beside her as she ate and drank, giving her space and letting her take her time. He watched her eyes brighten slightly and her hands become steadier, silently relieved. Score another one for Dad Voice, he thought, glad he hadn’t had to wait for her to pass out to get some fluids and food into her.

 

When she’d finished half the bottle and the whole banana, and was nibbling on a corner of the protein bar, he spoke again. “You want to tell me about what happened?”

 

Wanda glanced up at him, and then looked away. “You know what happened. They wouldn’t send you if they didn’t.”

 

“First of all,” Clint said, pulling another banana from the bag and peeling it, “nobody sent me.” He bit off a third of it, chewed, swallowed, and said, “Second of all, that’s not what I asked.”

 

Wanda looked, not at him, but at the banana. “Pietro used to do that,” she said. “Is that a boy thing? Eating the whole thing at once?”

 

“No clue,” Clint said. “For me it’s just about efficiency.” He popped the rest of it into his mouth, throwing the peel into the plastic bag he’d stuffed into the backpack. He wiped his hands on his jacket and looked at her expectantly as she picked at her protein bar. “So,” he prompted gently.

 

She put the protein bar down, fidgeting with the wrapper. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.

 

“Okay,” Clint agreed. She looked sharply up at him.

 

“Just like that?”

 

Clint shrugged. “I’m in no position to force you,” he said. “I’m not your team leader and you’re not my kid. I just thought you might want to get some of it off your chest.”

 

Wanda drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and shaking her head. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said again.

 

“Alright.” Clint mirrored her posture but kept his body loose, draping his elbows over his knees rather than hugging them. “I’m not pushing you. We can just sit here for a bit.”

 

They sat in silence, riding the elevator up and down. Clint let himself relax enough to stay out of sniper mode, allowing the minutes to pass without feeling the need to count them. The air in the shaft was cool but not unpleasant. He watched Wanda for any signs of discomfort, but her color was looking better as she finished her protein bar and water, and the recycled air in the shaft didn’t seem to bother her. She seemed content enough to sit there with him, her initial wariness fading slowly away.

 

To Clint’s surprise, Wanda broke the silence first. “You stayed with him,” she said. “With Pietro.”

 

It took Clint a few moments to place what she was saying. When he did, he tensed.

 

The trip back to New York after Sokovia on the Carrier had been tense and quiet for Clint. Any relief he’d felt knowing both he and Nat would live to fight another day was overshadowed by guilt, and he’d followed the coroner team with Pietro down to the morgue, slumping down into a chair beside the stretcher while they’d cleaned and covered him. It was only then that Wanda had come in--and Clint suspected that Vision and Steve had had something to do with that--and Clint had stayed while she screamed and sobbed herself hoarse, clinging to him, until she finally collapsed, shuddering, across his body. Clint had pulled himself up and gathered her into his lap like he did with Lila, and her tears had started again, weaker, quiet sobs that dampened his neck until exhaustion overpowered her and she’d slumped into a deep sleep.

 

She’d slept for eight hours and Clint hadn’t moved, had just drifted down into sniper headspace, focused not on his clamping muscles or the blood pulsing weakly from the gash in his side but on Wanda’s even breathing, on Pietro’s still, silent face.

 

Only when Wanda had woken, hollow-eyed and pale, and hoarsely asked him to go had he left, finding the nearest open bunk and collapsing into it.

 

Now, Clint threaded his fingers together, grounding himself with the pressure of his elbows against his knees. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I stayed.”

 

Wanda pressed her lips together. “I never thanked you.”

 

Clint shook his head. “He saved my life,” he said. “It was the least I could do.”

 

“You kept watch over him,” Wanda said, holding his gaze, her dark blue eyes steady and serious. “You kept him safe, made sure he was treated with dignity.” She took a breath. “There’s a tradition of--of guarding the dead. _Shmirah_. You did that for him.”

 

The word rang faint bells of familiarity in Clint’s memory. “ _Shmirah_ ,” he repeated, and then raised his eyebrows. “You’re Jewish?”

 

Wanda started slightly. “You are?”

 

Clint shrugged. “My wife is,” he said. “On her mother’s side. I don’t have much need for religion, but I do a lot of it for her and the kids.”

 

“Oh.” Wanda fidgeted with the cuff of her sweater. “Our parents raised us with faith. After our parents died, our grandparents did their best to keep us practicing, but Pietro, he was so angry. He kept the traditions out of respect for our parents, but the love, the meaning...it had gone out of him. There was too much anger. At Stark, at the government, but at God, too.”

 

Clint inclined his head. “What about you?”

 

She shook her head. “God doesn’t care about countries or borders,” she said. “Just about our actions, our choices. That’s what our mother taught us. That’s what I believed.”

 

He hesitated, but decided he needed to ask. “Hydra,” he said.

 

Emotions flashed across her face, guilt and shame and, finally, regret. “Pietro was angry,” she said softly. “And when the years passed and the rockets kept falling...I became angry, too. Hydra...it was a means to an end.” She dropped her eyes. “Our father’s grandparents died in the Shoah,” she said after a long silence. “I don’t think he would have forgiven us for joining them.”

 

“I don’t think that’s true.” Clint shifted, leaning towards her. “Whatever else you did, you and your brother saved the world.”

 

Wanda gave a short, humorless laugh. “It only needed saving because of us,” she said. “Because of me.” She looked up at him. “Would you forgive your daughter for something like that?”

 

Clint thought of Lila, and tried to figure out what he would say to her. He was willing to bet that _your mother is going to kill you if your Aunt Nat doesn’t do it first_ wasn’t the way to go. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look,” he said honestly. “You screwed up. I’m not going to lie to you. You were working off a lifetime of loss, and you were angry, and you threw in your lot with the wrong people. But it’s like I told you in Sokovia--it doesn’t matter what you did, what choices you made. When it came down to the wire, you made the right call. You stood and fought. That’s what’s important.”

 

Her lips parted, trembling. “But I--”

 

“But nothing,” Clint said firmly. He reached out and took both her hands in his. “You fought, Wanda, and you fought hard. Your family would be proud of you.” He squeezed her hands gently. “If you were my daughter, I’d be damn proud of you.”

 

Wanda blinked, tears filling her eyes. She took a shaking breath. “I don’t want to stay here,” she whispered. “It’s too much.”

 

Clint brushed her tears away with gentle thumbs. “Okay,” he said. “You wanna leave? Take a vacation?”

 

Wanda hesitated. “I don’t know.”

 

Clint heard what she wasn’t saying--heard the uncertainty, the fear of letting herself go somewhere else, of being alone and vulnerable somewhere. “Hey,” he said gently. Wanda looked up at him, and he tapped his own forehead. “You can look.”

 

Her brow furrowed, confusion flickering in her eyes. Good. He liked confusion better than distrust. “What?”

 

“Back in South Africa,” he said. “You didn’t look in my head. You didn’t see what I was afraid of. And you didn’t see what I’m trying to protect.” He took her hand, tugging carefully against her hesitant reluctance, and placed it against his temple. “Go ahead,” he said, keeping his tone gentle, encouraging. “This is me, consenting. No electro-arrows in sight.”

 

Wanda narrowed her eyes slightly at that, and then took a slow, deep breath. As she exhaled, he saw a faint glow out of the corner of his eye, and recognized it as the sign of her enhanced powers activating. He kept his breathing slow and even, careful to keep his own anxiety at the idea of someone else in his head under control, and closed his eyes.

 

The brush of Wanda’s mind against his own was nothing like Loki’s. Loki had been ice-cold, plunging everything into chilling shades of blue. Wanda’s touch was careful and gentle as she sifted through his memories, and Clint could _feel_ her moving through them, could see them flashing behind his eyes, crystal clear. But he saw them through her eyes, too: the crinkles at the corners of the eyes of a smiling brown-haired woman; the sweet sound of a dark-haired child’s first laugh; a little girl’s hesitant first steps, Clint’s own voice calling out encouragement; a manicured, feminine hand, tinged slightly dark with gun oil, brushing over a pregnant belly, Natasha’s voice murmuring soft endearments; an aging, creaking farmhouse that radiated warmth and love and _home_ in every nook and cranny. The sounds and sights and smells of his secret life, laid bare for her to see.

 

Her hand moved away from his forehead, and Clint opened his eyes--slowly, to give Wanda time to do whatever it was she needed to do for herself after using her powers. For his own part, he managed to resist the urge to shake his head a few times to get rid of the tingling feeling in his brain. He settled for running a hand through his hair, and when he looked at her, her eyes were wide and bright and shining with tears. Clint took a deep breath, and chose his words carefully. “That’s where we’d be going,” he said. “It’s a safe place. No pressure. No big decisions. No one’s going to ask you to save the world.” He held out a hand, waggling his fingers. “What do you say?”

 

Wanda looked at him for a long moment, her eyes searching his, and then, slowly, she nodded, as if she didn’t trust herself to speak. She reached out and slipped her hand into his, and Clint smiled gently. “Okay,” he said. “Then let’s go.”

 

**2003**

 

“Hey,” Clint says. “Nat?”

 

Natasha glances up from her book. She’s curled on the sofa in Clint’s apartment, dressed in her own leggings, one of Clint’s sweatshirts, and a pair of Laura’s socks. Laura’s gone for the weekend, out to Iowa to visit her grandmother, and Clint has only just stopped moping. “So help me,” she says, “you had better not start whining again.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

He’s standing at the base of the stairs, fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt, looking nervous. Natasha raises her eyebrows. “What’s up?” she puts her book down. “Is everything okay?”

 

“Yeah. It’s fine.” He shuffles closer to her, sitting next to her on the couch. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

 

“Alright.” Natasha pulls her knees up to make room for him on the sofa, then looks down at his hands, where he’s folding and unfolding a battered piece of notebook paper. She waits several seconds for him to speak, and then rolls her eyes, plucking the paper from his hands.

 

“Hey,” Clint protests, making a grab for it. Moving easily, Natasha twists, catching Clint’s shoulders between her thighs and pinning him against the couch. She ignores Clint’s attempts to get free and unfolds the page.

 

She stills.

 

Scrawled on the page in pencil is the unmistakable drawing of a ring. The band is gently rounded, the setting of the solitaire stone--chicken-scratched in Clint’s handwriting beside it, _diamond? that’s a thing, right? do we buy it or steal it?_ \--simple and clean. It is, without a doubt, an engagement ring.

 

“Clint,” she says quietly. “What is this?”

 

He struggles weakly for a few more minutes, and then goes slack in her grip. “It’s a ring,” he says, sounding defeated. “Or, you know. An idea for one.”

 

Natasha lets him go, watching him sit up and rub at his upper arms. “I can see it’s a ring, Barton,” she says, not bothering to take any sharpness from her tone. “Why are you carrying around a drawing of an engagement ring?”

 

Clint looks away from her, his shoulders tensing in the way that Natasha knows means he’s feeling nervous and defensive. She forces herself to take a steadying breath. “I’m sorry,” she says, closing her eyes. “Clint, why are you showing this to me?”

 

He takes the page back, refolding it along the well-worn creases, and Natasha wonders how long he’s been carrying it. “I want to propose to Laura.’

 

Natasha bites the inside of her cheek. She has always known that Clint looks at Laura and sees the traditional life he can never have with her, marriage and kids and white picket fences, but since it’s been the three of them, she’d somehow convinced herself that maybe he’d let that dream go. Now, the long-buried insecurity rears its ugly head again. “You want Laura to marry you,” she says.

 

Clint looks at her, his eyes sharp. “I want Laura to marry _us_ ,” he says.

 

Natasha snorts. “I don’t think polygamy is legal in this country.”

 

She’s going for humor because the alternative is letting him see the anxiety curling under her skin, and for a moment, she thinks she’s gotten away with it when he shrugs. “I mean, we’d have to figure out the logistics. Maybe only one of us would do the legal thing--me, I guess, if we want to do it in the U.S., and you hate having your name on anything legal. But the three of us, we’d be equal partners in it. We could have a ceremony for ourselves, rings, vows, all that stuff.” She doesn’t answer, just looks at him hard, and his smile fades. “Nat?”

 

He’s looking at her and his expression is bright and earnest, concern slipping in around the edges. “Why?”

 

Clint cocks an eyebrow. “Why, what?”

 

“Why do you want to get married?” She gestures around the apartment, at the signs of the three of them co-existing there. “What’s wrong with what we have?”

 

Clint’s eyes follow her hand, gazing around, and Natasha watches him take everything in: Clint’s bow and quiver leaning against the breakfast bar, Natasha’s gun case on the floor by the door, Laura’s lesson planning supplies scattered across the table. The DVD shelves near the TV have shifted from Clint’s collection of action movies to a broader array--Natasha’s film noir and spy films, Laura’s Disney and Pixar and romantic comedies. “I love what we have,” he says quietly. “I do, Nat, you have no idea how much. I love both of you so much it makes my head spin. And the way things are now, it’s great.”

 

He hesitates. “But Laura, you know--she’s not like us. She grew up normal, her family’s normal, her friends are normal. And all her friends are getting married and having kids, and she says she’s fine with it, but every time she gets another invitation in the mail she just looks...I don’t know, kind of sad.” He runs the thumb of one hand over the knuckles of the other, his expression soft and thoughtful. “I know she says she’s okay with what we have, and I think she is, on the surface. But deep down--she wants that. She wants to get married, to have a family.”

 

The laugh that forces its way past Natasha’s lips is harsh and bitter. “Then she’s sure wasted a lot of time with us.”

 

“But that’s what I’m saying, Nat,” Clint says, his voice earnest and gentle. “It’s not a waste. She can have that with us if we’re willing to give it to her.”

 

Natasha raises her eyebrows. “So, what, we have some secret ceremony? Move out to a house in the country where Laura and I play housewife? You get to knock around the world while we hang around raising all the children I can’t have?”

 

Clint flinches, his eyes going hard. “You really think that this is about--” He breaks off, shaking his head. “If you think I’d _ever_ \--no. You know what? Forget I said anything. It was a stupid idea.”

 

He gets to his feet, radiating hurt from every inch, and Natasha feels a twinge of guilt. She reaches out to catch his arm before he moves completely out of her reach. “Wait,” she says. He stills, but doesn’t look back at her. She takes a deep breath through her nose, lets it out slowly. “You wouldn’t do that to me,” she says, stumbling slightly over her words in a way that’s unfamiliar and uncomfortable. “I know that. I--it was a knee-jerk reaction. I’m sorry.”

 

She hesitates, watching him uncertainly. He looks at her for a few moments, and then swallows visibly and sits down beside her again. She holds out a hand, palm up. After a moment he laces his fingers with hers, and she breathes a sigh of relief. “It’s something that I tried to stop worrying about,” she admits, running the pad of her thumb over his knuckles. She’s not ready to look at him yet. “Like you said, she’s...she’s so normal. And all those normal things that I can’t give you, she can.”

 

Clint’s fingers tense under hers. “You know it’s not like that,” he says, and his voice is so tender that it puts a lump in her throat.

 

“I know. Rationally, I know.” Natasha pushes her hair back. “But it’s still something I think about. You don’t think I know that Laura’s family represents everything you didn’t have as a kid?”

 

Clint looks down at their hands. “I won’t say it doesn’t,” he admits, tapping the fingers of his free hand absently against his leg. “But there’s more to it than that.”

 

Natasha tilts her head. “So tell me.”

 

It comes out a bit more defensive than she means it to, but Clint seems content to let it go. “I never thought I’d want to get married,” he says. “I mean, with my parents as role models, it wasn’t--it wasn’t anything I wanted. And then I met you, and you were--God, Nat, you were amazing. _Are_ amazing. And I know I was just a kid at the time, but if I thought you’d ever say yes I’d’ve proposed to you every damn day.”

 

Natasha snorts, but Clint shakes his head. “I’m serious, Nat. You’re one of the most incredible people I’ve ever met. Why wouldn’t I want to marry you?”

 

“You never asked,” she points out.

 

He shoots her a skeptical look. “I tried once,” he says. “In ninety-six. I asked what you thought about marriage. You said you’d done it once and never even wanted to think about it again.”

 

Natasha flips through her memory, but can’t place the conversation. She doesn’t doubt that it happened, though--more likely she just hadn’t thought it important enough to remember, and she feels a prickle of guilt at that. “I have, and I didn’t, really,” she says. “My first husband was...one of the first people to ever treat me kindly. When he died, I didn’t want to ever be someone’s wife again.” And it had remained true, for a long time. Alexei’s death had shattered her in a way that so many other experiences had never managed, and she’d spent years mourning him.

 

She had been trained to be a Black Widow, but it was only after Alexei that the name had meant anything.

 

Clint is watching her steadily as she brings herself back to the present moment. “Like I said,” he says softly. “If I thought you’d ever say yes…” He shrugs. “I mean--are you telling me you would have?”

 

She thinks about it. “I don’t know,” she admits. “You were right about the legality of it. I don’t like my name on documents. And I’m assuming you’d want the legitimacy of my real name.”

 

“I would,” Clint says, and then flashes a quick grin. “I wouldn’t ask you to take mine, though.” That makes her laugh, and he squeezes her hand tight. “Nat,” he says gently, “I was serious when I said I’d never walk away from you. I’m yours as long as you’re willing to put up with me; I want to spend the rest of my life with you. And I want Laura to be a part of that, too.”

 

Natasha looks down at their joined hands, taking in the contrast in their skin. “And marrying her will make that happen?” He glances at her, surprise flickering in his features, and she hesitates, choosing her next words carefully. “I’m just asking, Clint--are you bringing this up because you want to marry Laura, or because you’re worried that if you don’t ask her to marry us, she’ll leave us for someone who will?”

 

Clint parts his lip, his gaze flickering away from her. “I…” He hesitates. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He rubs his knuckles, then the back of his head. “Stupid, I guess.”

 

“Only as stupid as you ever are,” Natasha says. “Laura loves you. Horrendous taste in men aside, she’s a smart, motivated woman. If she wanted to leave, she would have already done it. Do you really think she’d base that call on whether or not you put a ring on her finger?”

 

“No. Probably not.”

 

He doesn’t sound convinced, and Natasha sighs, because if there’s any force on earth more powerful than her insecurity, it’s Clint’s. “Clint.”

 

“She wouldn’t. Of course she wouldn’t. I know that.” He tries to pull his hand away from hers, but she holds fast. Clint slumps back against the couch, his eyes stormy, and Natasha waits, patiently, for him to continue. She’s had plenty of practice.

 

When he finally speaks, he’s quiet. “I love you,” he says. She flinches, and he laughs softly. “I know you hate the word, but it’s true. I love you, and I love Laura. When I look at the two of you, it’s like--it makes my head spin. And it blows my mind that the two of you don’t just put up with me, you want me, you--you care about me. Even though I’m a disaster.” He toys with her fingertips, runs his thumb over the line of her fourth finger. “I want to marry you,” he says. “I want to marry Laura. I want to put rings on your fingers and vow to love both of you for the rest of my life, and when some stupid bullet finally takes me out, I don’t want my girlfriend to get the call. I want my wife to get the call. I want that...that legitimacy. It matters to me.”

 

He drags his eyes up and looks at her, and vulnerability is written all over his face, etched into every line. “It’s not just for Laura.”

 

Natasha takes a breath, watching his fingers play along her own. His hands, usually so steady, tremble slightly, and she realizes that he’s nervous, that he’s trusting her with something huge, that the fear of rejection is there on his face and in his eyes.

 

She tries, for a moment, to imagine herself as a wife again. With Alexei she had lived on the air base, had been pampered, had been surrounded by other wives, watching the women around her bear children, keep homes. She had been an assassin wrapped in quiet domesticity, and as strange as it had been, it had been quiet, almost content.

 

When Alexei had died, she had grieved--truly grieved. She had sworn to never be a wife again, and until Clint, that had been easy.

 

But Clint has always been the exception, Clint with his endless optimism and laughing eyes. Clint who makes her smile and whose hands know her body nearly as well as she does, Clint who has always seen the best in her. Clint who has made her second-guess everything she has ever told herself about relationships and attachments being weakness and vulnerability, Clint who has made her so much stronger than she ever could have hoped for. Clint who _loves_ , with so much depth and feeling, despite all the violence and hurt done to him.

 

And Laura--

 

 

Laura, who tells stories of her childhood that are warm and soft, as warm and soft as the fresh sheets that Laura spreads on Clint’s bed, smelling like fabric softener and lilac. Who talks about seeing her parents dancing in their kitchen when she was small, who talks about waking up early to fresh snow on Christmas morning, of playing with her brothers in a large, rambunctious house. Laura, who is the warmest person Natasha has ever known, warm without any of the tinges of cold and sharp that have clung to every other person in Natasha’s life.

 

She wonders what it would like to be Laura’s wife, to be Clint’s wife. To see rings glinting on their fingers. To create a home with them--not just the home that they’ve cobbled together in Clint’s apartment, using it as common ground, but a new home, something that has pieces of all of them. She wonders what it would be like to see Laura walk down an aisle in white, to stand in a ceremony again and swear vows to protect and cherish and lo--care for them for the rest of their lives. She wonders what it would be like to watch Clint move in a kitchen with a gold band shining on his hand, wonders what the weight of a ring on her finger would feel like curled around a gun, curled around Laura’s hand, curled over Clint’s hip.

 

She takes a breath, and looks at Clint, who is watching her with quiet hope. “Okay,” she says.

 

Clint blinks. “Okay?” he asks, his voice unsteady and cautious.

 

“Okay,” Natasha repeats. She smiles, and feels warm all the way down to her toes. “Let’s plan a proposal.”

 

**2015**

 

The afternoon had been a quiet one so far, and Natasha, who had precious few quiet afternoons these days, was determined to let herself enjoy it.

 

She curled comfortably into one of the rocking chairs on the porch, armed not with guns or knives but with a tall glass of lemonade and a truly horrible spy novel she’d found in Clint’s nightstand. The novel was creased and clearly often-reread, and she was gleefully looking forward to giving Clint shit about it, even as she reclined in the chair, sipping her lemonade and listening to the wind rustling through the fields.

 

Laura and the two older kids were gone for the day, leaving Natasha alone on the farm except for Nathaniel, who slept soundly in his carrier at Natasha’s feet. Laura’s youngest brother, Michael, had taken Cooper and Lila out for a day of volunteering with the local humane society, and the kids had leapt at the opportunity to spend a day with their uncle that didn’t involve farm work. Laura had gotten firm promises from the kids--and a much firmer promise from her brother--not to come home with anything bigger than a goldfish, while Natasha had snickered into her coffee and remarked on how lucky they were that it was Mike, not Clint, taking the kids to a building full of animals needing homes.

 

Once the kids were out the door, Natasha had convinced Laura to take a few hours to herself, and after a bit of cajoling, Laura had--armed with Natasha’s credit card--gone into town for a haircut, a manicure, and a bit of shopping. She’d left Natasha with a few bottles of pre-pumped milk and a quick kiss on the cheek, and just like that, Natasha had the place to herself.

 

It was strange, she mused, rocking Nate’s carrier with one foot, to be alone in the place that was home and not-home to her at once. The farmhouse had barely changed over the years, and what change there was had been small and gradual--a painting here, a knick-knack there. The biggest changes were the organic ones that came as the result of a growing family: the replacement of baby toys with children’s toys, the scattering of dolls and balls and books, the drawings and school assignments and calendar markings pinned to the refrigerator. But the core of the house, the little things that made it a home, remained constant: eclectic collections of mugs and cookware, never bought as a set, handmade blankets and quilts and pillow covers on the couches and beds, comfort and utilitarianism and family and memories built into every nook and cranny. Moving through the kitchen that morning as she’d made her lemonade, Natasha had been reminded, yet again, of the differences between a house where someone lived, and a family home with history and generations of love and care.

 

Contrasting that against the cool, designer emptiness of her own houses and bolt-holes scattered across the globe made it even harder to leave.

 

Still, she knew she would have to, sooner or later. As comfortable as it was here, this wasn’t really her home anymore. It was a respite, a safehouse, a quiet place to come back to after a hard mission. Each time she came, she did her best to keep her visits brief, a few weeks at the most--any more than that, and it became agony to tear herself away.

 

And maybe it was selfish, too, staying as long as she did. When the days of her visits turned into

weeks, Clint and Laura were freer with their touches, longer with their embraces, treating her less like a skittish deer ready to bolt and more like the partner she had been to them, once upon a time. It made it all the worse when she did leave, not just for them but for the kids, too, and she knew that, she _did_.

 

But she did it, all the same.

 

 

Nate stirred in his carrier, gurgling and squirming, and Natasha let him pull her out of her reverie, glad to abandon that train of thought. She leaned down and lifted him free of the seat, settling him into the crook of her arm and bending to kiss his nose. He blinked up at her with eyes that were still blue, and she smiled, running a finger over one of his downy eyebrows. She wondered if, when his eyes finally settled, he’d have Clint’s steely blue-grey eyes or Laura’s deep brown ones. So far, Laura was two for three on getting her genes to the kids’ eyes. The genetic odds were in her favor for the third, but less likely things had happened.

 

She bounced Nate gently until he settled again, mouthing contentedly at the sleeve of her cardigan, and was about to pick up her book again when the sound of jet engines made her ears perk up. She just had time to glance up at the sky as the quinjet soared overhead, whipping up a fierce wind as it passed the house.

 

The roar of the engines set Nate off. He burst into a wail, abandoning Natasha’s sleeve, and Natasha huffed a sigh, getting to her feet. “Dammit, Barton,” she muttered, trying to keep her tone light and soothing as she swayed back and forth, rocking Nate in her arms to try and calm him down. She glared up at the sky, watching the quinjet settle down behind the trees. “Your daddy has clearly forgotten that he’s got a baby at home,” she told Nate, who whimpered and squirmed, refusing to settle. “Okay. Okay, come on inside. Let’s get you a bottle.”

 

As she moved into the kitchen to heat one of the bottles Laura had left for her, she felt a twinge of pained jealousy--the kind that had almost completely faded over the years, but had surfaced more often since Wanda’s mental attack back in May--at how easy this would have been for Laura to handle, a matter of moving her blouse aside and setting Nate to her breast to nurse, not the awkward one-handed rummaging for a saucepan and bottle that Natasha had to contend with. As quickly as the thought came, she felt guilty for it. She knew from watching Laura with all three of the kids and paying attention to every micro-expression of pain that crossed her face that breastfeeding was harder than Laura made it look, and that Laura didn’t take it for granted nearly as much as Natasha, in the rare moments of self-pity she allowed herself, speculated that she herself might, if given the chance.

 

Nate quieted quickly enough once the bottle was ready, but Natasha wasn’t taking any chances, and walked him back and forth across the living room as she fed him, humming softly. She didn’t bother pausing her steps when she heard footsteps on the porch steps, and kept moving when the front door opened. “You woke up your baby,” she said, not looking up.

 

“Oh,” said a soft voice.

 

Not Clint’s voice. Natasha turned.

 

Wanda stood in the doorway, dressed in jeans and a too-large SHIELD sweatshirt, her hair tied up into a ponytail. She looked tired, but any weariness was entirely overshadowed by surprise as she stared at Natasha. Her gaze slipped from Natasha’s face down to Nate’s, and her lips parted, her eyes widening slightly.

 

Clint appeared behind Wanda an instant later, and Natasha relaxed a fraction at the calm on his face. “It’s okay,” he said, putting a hand on Wanda’s shoulder. She tensed slightly at the contact, and then relaxed. “Natasha knew you were coming. Didn’t you, Nat?”

 

Natasha recovered herself. “I did,” she agreed. “Though a little more of a heads-up would’ve been good, Barton. I could have had a bottle ready for him.”

 

“My bad,” Clint said, an easy grin crossing his face. He let his hand fall from Wanda’s shoulder to her lower back, guiding her into the house, and Natasha saw then that he had a pair of duffle bags--his own black one, and a smaller, SHIELD-issue one--slung over his shoulder. “Sure is quiet,” he remarked as he steered Wanda into the kitchen and sat her down at the table.

 

His tone was easy and casual, but Natasha heard what he was asking. “Mike took the kids out to the Humane Society, and Laura went to get a haircut.”

 

Clint’s entire face brightened. “The Humane Society?”

 

“You’re not getting a dog,” Natasha said flatly. “Laura made them promise.”

 

His face fell. “Oh. Well, worth a shot.” He filled the kettle with water, set it on the stove, and took a seat at the table across from Wanda, holding out his arms and waggling his fingers. “Come to Daddy, little man.”

 

Natasha rolled her eyes but passed Nate over, along with the half-full bottle and the burp cloth she’d tossed haphazardly over her shoulder. Clint took him easily, holding him close and closing his eyes as he rested his nose against the top of Nate’s head and breathed in deeply. The inhale seemed to drive all the barely-perceptible tension from his shoulders, and he sighed contentedly, settling Nate down into the crook of his arm to finish the feeding.

 

Her hands free, Natasha sat down next to Wanda, giving the younger woman a careful once-over. Purple circles smudged the pale skin under her eyes, and her cheekbones looked hollower than they had when Natasha had left the training complex the week before. Natasha frowned, mentally kicking herself at the realization that Wanda must have been hiding her weariness and weight loss with makeup--probably using the exact makeup tips Natasha herself had given her under the guise of attempting bonding in those early weeks after Ultron.

 

As if reading Natasha’s thoughts--and who knew, maybe she really was--Wanda glanced her way and gave a small smile. “It is not so bad,” she said. “It was just a--a bad week.”

 

“Yeah,” Clint said, teasing just enough to diffuse some tension, not enough to be cruel. “Way to plan your vacations horribly, Nat.”

 

Natasha rolled her eyes. “You’re lucky you’re holding the baby, Barton.” She glanced back at Wanda, who was looking back and forth between them, her expression hovering somewhere between confusion and amusement. “How was the flight?”

 

“It was fine.” Wanda looked at Clint, who didn’t even seem to register her gaze, his own too focused on Nate. “That--this is Nathaniel?”

 

Clint blinked, looking up, and Natasha had to stifle a laugh. “Huh?” he said, and then blinked again. “Oh.” He grinned. “Yeah. Yes.” He set the bottle aside, scooping Nate up onto his shoulder to burp him. “You want to hold him?” he asked, patting Nate’s back.

 

Natasha looked sharply at him, but before she could say anything, Wanda was nodding. “Yes,” she said. Her voice was hesitant, and she swallowed visibly before repeating, more strongly now, “Yes, please. I would.”

 

Clint’s grin broadened. “Alright, then. You ever hold a baby before?” Wanda nodded again. “Just checking.” He pulled the burp cloth off his shoulder and passed it over to Wanda, and then carefully held Nate out.

 

Wanda took him hesitantly, Clint’s hands guiding hers as she tucked Nate’s head into the crook of one arm and wrapped the other around him for support. Nate snuffled at the transition but quieted, settling into the new arms, and Wanda looked down at him, her expression soft and wondering. “He’s so small,” she said, her voice tinged with awe.

 

“He’s bigger than he used to be,” Clint said, and Natasha couldn’t help smiling at the quiet pride in his voice. She glanced at him, taking in the tenderness in his gaze as he looked at them, and couldn’t help a smile of her own.

 

Nate yawned suddenly, his face scrunching, and Wanda gave a surprised little laugh. “Such a face,” she said.

 

“Must be relaxed,” Clint said. He folded his arms on the table, leaning forward. “You have a good energy going.”

 

Wanda looked up at him, her dark blue eyes searching his face. Natasha watched her carefully, trying to read her expression. This was a different Wanda than the one she saw at the training complex. The Wanda there was determined and fierce, burying herself in training. The moments of vulnerability Natasha saw in her were few and far between, tiny cracks in the walls Wanda seemed to be constantly building and rebuilding.

 

This Wanda was quieter and a little more uncertain. She seemed younger, Natasha realized, but then, she _was_ young, only barely out of her teens. Just a kid, and all but alone in the world.

 

Nate yawned again, snuffling and wriggling slightly in Wanda’s arms. Wanda took one hand away from him and lifted it above his head, and Natasha saw the flicker of red energy at her fingertips. She tensed, but Clint put a hand on her knee, shaking his head slightly.

 

 _Easy_ , he signed to her. _O-K_.

 

Natasha took a breath, and forced herself to relax.

 

Wanda held her hand steady, the shimmer of red at her fingers hovering in the air. Nate’s half-lidded eyes seemed to focus on it, and Wanda murmured something in Sokovian, bringing her hand gently down and brushing the tip of her index finger over his nose. Nate made a little sound, almost like a kitten’s mewl, closed his eyes, and relaxed. Wanda smiled, soft and tender, the first true smile Natasha had seen in her in weeks.

 

“Sweet dreams, little Nathaniel,” Wanda whispered, and Natasha saw Clint smile.

 

**2004**

 

Laura wakes to a white room with an unfamiliar ceiling, with the taste of dry cotton in her mouth and a dull ache in her belly.

 

“Lola? Honey?”

 

The voice is familiar and comforting, even though it’s tinged with panic. She flickers through her fuzzy brain to try and place it, and comes up with images of warm hands and tight hugs and sweet lullabies. “Mommy?” Her voice scratches in her throat, dry and raspy.

 

“Hold on, baby, let me get you some water.”

 

A moment later, there’s a straw at her lips, and Laura drinks gratefully. “Small sips, sweetheart,” her mother says, and Laura obediently slows down. The water is cool and refreshing and so sweet she could cry.

 

When her mother pulls the straw away from her, Laura blinks a few times, waiting for her eyes to readjust to being open. Everything is blurry, and she realizes it’s because she isn’t wearing her glasses.

 

As if reading her mind, her mother says, “Here, honey,” and carefully slides a pair of glasses onto Laura’s face.

 

The world comes into focus, and she realizes instantly that she’s in a hospital room. Not just that, but she’s in a hospital _bed_. It’s such an unfamiliar feeling that she almost thinks she might be dreaming. She’s never been hospitalized before. “What happened?” she asks.

 

Her mother sits down on the bed, brushing Laura’s hair back. She looks tired and drawn, as if she’s been worrying. “Your appendix burst, sweetheart,” she says. “You had to have emergency surgery.”

 

“Oh.” Laura tries to make sense of that. She remembers having bad cramps for a few days, but she’d figured it was just her period. “Was I sick?”

 

“Yes, honey. You were sick. But you’re okay now.” Her mother lifts Laura’s hand and kisses it.

 

The nagging thought in the back of Laura’s mind takes real shape, and she frowns. “Where’s Clint?” She manages to catch the _and Tasha_ before it leaves her mouth.

 

Her mother squeezes her hand. “The hospital wouldn’t let him come in because he isn’t family. We argued with them, but they said you’d have to ask for him yourself. Daddy just took him and your friend Natasha to the cafeteria to get some truly awful coffee.”

 

“I want Clint,” Laura says. The words come out small and petulant, and she knows it, but her mother just leans down and kisses her forehead.

 

“I’ll tell the nurses.” Her mother stands to go, but Laura catches her arm.

 

“And I want Tasha,” she says.

 

Her mother blinks, looking surprised. “You do?” Laura nods as much as her aching head will allow, and her mother looks puzzled, but nods. “Okay, sweetheart.”

 

In the time it takes Laura’s mother to summon a nurse and then to go down to the cafeteria to collect Clint and Natasha, Laura is poked and prodded and questioned by two nurses and a doctor, and gets a brief glance at her very first surgical scar.

 

She’s just thinking about how she can finally be part of the scar club with Clint and Natasha when Clint bursts through the door, Natasha tight on his heels. He makes a beeline for her, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her. The kiss manages to be urgent and gentle at the same time, and Laura leans into it with a whimper, bringing the hand that doesn’t have an IV cord in it up to clutch at his arm. A moment later, he pulls away, and Natasha replaces him, and her kiss is just close enough to the corner of her mouth that it could have been mistaken for a kiss to the cheek if anyone else had been watching.

 

It’s enough.

 

When Natasha sits back, Laura sees that her eyes are shining with tears. “Never do that again,” she says, her voice fierce. “You’re supposed to be the one who _doesn’t_ go to hospitals.”

 

Laura smiles. The nurses had given her more pain meds, and she’s feeling a little loopy. “I have a scar now,” she says. “Like you.”

 

Clint’s face falls, and he and Natasha exchange a look that’s so sad and heartbroken that Laura can’t stand it. “Did I say something wrong?” she asks, feeling suddenly tearful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

 

Clint shakes his head, his expression softening. “No, sweetheart,” he says, leaning across the bed to stroke her hair. “You didn’t say anything wrong. It’s just…”

 

He looks at Natasha helplessly, and she squeezes Laura’s hand. “You’re not supposed to have any scars at all, голубка. You’re supposed to be safe. We’re supposed to keep you safe.”

 

“Oh.” Laura blinks a few times. Her eyes feel warm. “From my appendix?”

 

Clint manages a lopsided grin. “If we could, we would.” He tucks a few strands of her hair back behind her ear, his eyes tender. “How do you feel?”

 

“I’m okay. I feel floaty.”

 

Natasha looks amused. “That’s why they call it the good stuff, my dove,” she says, running the pad of her thumb across the backs of Laura’s knuckles.

 

They’re both touching her, and it feels nice, warm and comfortable. The contact is gentle but Laura can sense the underlying urgency in it, the nervousness and uncertainty they’re holding at bay. It almost makes her smile, to think of her strong, stalwart assassins hovering over her bed, pacing a waiting room.

 

Thinking of them pacing the waiting room makes her feel cold, and she frowns. “They didn’t let you in,” she says.

 

Natasha and Clint exchange another look, this one confused. “What?” Clint asks.

 

“My mom. She said they wouldn’t let you in because you weren’t family.” Saying it makes her sad, and she blinks up at them. “Would they tell you anything?”

 

Clint looks like he might want to lie to her, but he says, “No. We had to wait until your parents got here.”

 

Laura can’t help it. She starts to cry.

 

Panic shoots across Natasha’s face, but Clint leans down and wraps Laura in his arms. She clings to him and sobs into his shoulder while he rubs her back. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” Clint murmurs, kissing her cheek, her temple. For some reason, that just makes her cry harder, and after a few moments she feels Natasha’s arms encircle her from her other side, nestling her chin on Laura’s shoulder. “We were okay. Your mom got us into the loop real quick.”

 

Surrounded by both of them, she feels safe and protected, even if she’s still crying loud, undignified tears into Clint’s shirt. “They should have told you stuff. They _should’ve_.”

 

“I know they should’ve, honey, but they couldn’t,” Natasha says, running soothing fingers through Laura’s hair. “There’s rules.”

 

“But what if it was one of you, or both of you, and they wouldn’t tell _me_ , and I--” Laura draws in a gasping, shuddering breath. Her attempt at exhaling gets stuck in her suddenly stuffy nose and she coughs.

 

Calmly, Clint reaches for the box of tissues on the table beside the bed, plucks one from the box, and holds it against Laura’s nose. “Blow,” he says.

 

Automatic reflexes trained from childhood kick in, and she blows. The wet, snotty sound makes her cringe, but Clint doesn’t bat an eye, just balls up the tissue and tosses it--with predictable, unerring accuracy--into the trash can in the corner. He looks at her. “Need another?”

 

“No,” she says, and bursts out laughing, because her superspy boyfriend just helped her blow her nose like she was a five-year-old while their beautiful assassin girlfriend looked on in amused confusion. She laughs so hard she starts to cry again, and drops her head onto Clint’s shoulder. “We should get married,” she says.

 

Natasha’s fingers stop moving in her hair. Laura lifts her head to peer up at Clint, who looks like a deer in the headlights, and then cranes her neck to see Natasha, whose eyes have gone wide. Laura’s brain catches up with her mouth, and she swallows. “Um,” she says. “I. Um.” Clint and Natasha glance at each other, exchanging one of those silent conversations that Laura still can’t quite translate, and Laura panics. “Sorry. Sorry. I was just thinking--you know, if we were married, then they’d have to tell you stuff, and also tell me stuff, and we’d all know stuff, and--and that would be good, because we wouldn’t have to worry about stuff, and--”

 

Very gently, Clint extracts himself from Laura’s arms, walking across the room to the backpack he’d tossed haphazardly onto the floor when he and Natasha had come in, and Laura’s panic doubles. “Clint? I said I was sorry.” She twists to look at Natasha, worried that she’s going to move, too, but Natasha just kisses her cheek.

 

“You don’t need to be sorry, где мало,” she says, shifting to sit on the bed and wrapping her arms around Laura’s shoulders. “You didn’t say anything wrong.”

 

“I didn’t?” Laura searches her face for any signs of dishonesty. Natasha smiles, and tightens her arms very gently.

 

“No,” Clint says, getting back to his feet from where he’d been kneeling by the bag. “You didn’t.” He comes back to the bed, turning something small and black in his hands.

 

Laura blinks, leaning back against Natasha’s comforting weight. “Clint?” she asks, uncertain. He sits down on the edge of the bed, close enough that Laura can see that the small, black thing is a small, black box. Her heart jumps directly into her throat. “Clint?” she asks again, and her voice comes out as a breathy squeak.

 

Clint cracks a crooked smile. “Yeah,” he says, and looks down at the box in his hands, fidgeting with it. “Um. I know I’m supposed to get down on one knee, but my hip’s still doing that creaky thing from that fight in Kazakhstan last month, and--”

 

“ _Clint_ ,” Natasha says, amusement and exasperation in her voice. Clint stops babbling and looks at her over Laura’s shoulder, and Natasha says, “It doesn’t matter if you’re on one knee. Do it like we talked about.”

 

 _We_ , Laura thinks wildly, but Clint is straightening his shoulders, clearing his throat. “Laura,” he says, “Natasha and I--that is, we were talking, a while back, and we wanted--that is, we both--uh. We both love you, and we want to--to spend the rest of our lives with you. And not that marriage is the only way to do that, but--well, like you said, it’s got it’s perks, but more importantly, you know, we just--we love you. And, uh.” He breaks off, rubbing the back of his head, his cheeks going pink. “Aw, hell. I’m crappy at this.”

 

Her heart swelling, so full in her chest she thinks it might burst, Laura reaches out and touches his hand. “You’re perfect,” she whispers.

 

Clint’s gaze flickers up to meet hers, and his eyes are bright and glistening. “Laura Walker,” he says. “Will you--”

 

Only Natasha’s arms around her and Clint’s sharp yelp about her stitches keep her from launching herself into his arms. Laura huffs and leans back against Natasha, thrusting her left hand forward. Clint laughs and opens the box, sliding a simple solitaire ring onto her finger before lifting her hand to his lips and kissing it. She grabs him by the collar of his shirt and hauls him forward into a kiss. “I love you,” she says against his lips, and turns her head to kiss Natasha, just as fiercely. “ _Both_ of you.”

 

Clint laughs, looking up at her with a grin that transforms his face, all the lines disappearing, making him look young and bright and beautiful. “So is that a yes?”

 

Natasha reaches out and smacks him lightly. “Of course it’s a yes, birdbrain,” she says, and there are tears shining in her eyes, and Clint sticks his tongue out at her. Laura has stitches in her belly and an unfamiliar tube in her arm and a swimming headache and a dry mouth, and she has never, ever been happier or more in love in her life.

 

**2015**

 

Laura had heard stories about Wanda Maximoff.

 

The first words she’d associated with Wanda had been _punk_ and _kid_. She’d heard them in her bedroom, watching her husband change, and she’d fought through a mind swimming with gratitude for his safety and barely-suppressed panic at the idea of superheroes in her kitchen to hear what he was really saying.

 

Clint Barton had been a punk kid, once, too, and Laura knew from years of watching him shake awake from silent nightmares that being a punk didn’t except him from being lost and scared, fighting tooth and nail against a violent world.

 

Knowing that, it hadn’t surprised her in the least when Clint had called her less than a day later to let her know that Wanda and Pietro Maximoff were going to fight with them, not against them, and Laura had cried real, honest tears when she’d learned of Pietro’s death.

 

Giving his name to their son had been the least she could do.

 

She had gotten updates on Wanda from Natasha from time to time, and through Natasha’s eyes Wanda had been a fighter with potential, a sister mourning her brother, a quiet heroine. It wasn’t much of a description from someone with Natasha’s observational skill, but then, Natasha wasn’t looking for the sorts of things Laura would have looked for.

 

Natasha texted her in the late afternoon, just as Laura was getting back into her car after her manicure, which the lovely lady at the shop had been kind enough to touch up for her after Laura had smudged it only moments after leaving her chair. She buckled her seatbelt and pulled her phone carefully out of her purse, swiping across Natasha’s message to open it.

 

_c and w r here. thought u’d like a heads up. baby is fine._

 

Attached was a picture of Nate dozing in Clint’s arms, taken from a clearly clandestine angle. Laura smiled at the snapshot, and then peered more closely at it. Just at the edge of the frame was a slim, dark-haired figure, looking at Clint with an unreadable expression.

 

It was, without a doubt, Wanda Maximoff.

 

Laura chewed her bottom lip for a moment, and then called her brother. “Hi, Mikey,” she said when he answered.

 

“Hey, Laur.”

 

“How are the monsters?”

 

“They’re great. They’ve each picked out three puppies and a kitten to bring home.” Laura groaned, and Michael snickered. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. They’re good. The volunteers love them, like always. What’s up?”

 

“Something’s come up,” she said, drumming her fingertips on the steering wheel. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to keep them overnight. I can have Clint drop off a bag for them later.”

 

There was a pause at the other end of the line. “Is everything okay?”

 

“Yeah. Everything’s fine. Just…”

 

“Ah.” She could hear the halfhearted grin in his voice. “Avengers business?”

 

“Something like that,” she admitted.

 

“My sister, mom to the superheroes,” he said, a little fondly. “I’m always happy to keep them. Is it okay if I give them the sugar-water intravenously, or do you like it better when I just do it the old-fashioned way and let them have ice cream for every meal?”

 

“Jerk,” she said. “Thank you. Give them a kiss for me.”

 

“Will do,” he said, and hung up.

 

Laura sighed, gave herself a few moments to take some deep breaths, and drove carefully home.

 

The farmhouse was quiet as she pulled into the driveway, and Laura climbed slowly out of the car, looking up at the house uncertainly. _Oh, stop it, Laura_ , she told herself, because even if something _had_ gone wrong up at the house, it wasn’t like she’d be able to do much about it, and Clint would, she knew, be dead before he let anything happen to the baby.

 

“Laura?”

 

Speak of the devil. Clint came around the corner of the porch, Nate tucked into his arms. Laura felt a tension she hadn’t even recognized bleed away from her shoulders as she walked up the steps and into his embrace, the arm that wasn’t holding Nate wrapping securely around her. She kissed his neck and then took Nate from him, breathing in his baby-sweet smell and cuddling him close. “I missed you,” she said.

 

Clint smiled down at her, cupping her cheek in one broad hand. “Are you talking to me, or the baby?”

 

Laura glanced up at him. “Both?” she offered, and Clint laughed.

 

“Fair enough.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and steered her inside. “For what it’s worth, I missed you, too.”

 

“Good.”

 

Inside, the sound of running water upstairs echoed through the house’s old pipes. Laura could smell peppermint in the air. “Tea?” she asked.

 

Clint nodded. “Wanda was a little skittish. We wanted to calm her down a bit. She’s in the shower now.”

 

“Where’s Nat?” Laura sat down at the kitchen table, easing her purse off her shoulder without jostling Nate.

 

“Upstairs making up a guest bed for Wanda.”

 

Laura frowned. “There’s already a guest bed made up for Nat. It’s not like she’s slept in it since she got here.”

 

Clint shrugged, sitting down next to her and threading his fingers together on the table. “She might be planning to keep up appearances.”

 

“Oh.” Laura rocked Nate thoughtfully, looking down at his peaceful, sleeping face. It didn’t surprise her, not really. Natasha kept her secrets close, and Laura knew that as secrets went, their relationship--whatever they called it now--topped the list. “That’s...too bad. I guess I was hoping…” Clint reached out and brushed her cheek with his fingertips, and she turned her face into his touch.

 

Footsteps on the stairs made her turn, and Natasha rounded the corner to look at her. She smiled when she saw Laura. “I thought I heard your voice,” she said. “How was your day of pampering? I like the haircut.”

 

Clint shot Laura a look of alarm. “You got a haircut?” he asked nervously.

 

Natasha snickered, and Laura couldn’t help a grin. “Just a trim, Hawkeye,” she said, reaching over to poke his nose gently. “I was due for one.”

 

“I bet he didn’t notice your manicure, either,” Natasha teased, coming over and squeezing Laura’s shoulder before collecting the mugs from the table and bringing them to the sink.

 

Clint made a face at Natasha, but Laura caught him peering closely at her nails out of the corner of his eye. She lifted the hand not wrapped around Nate and waggled her nails at him so he could see the pale pink polish. “Superspy by day,” she said playfully, “Absent-minded husband by night.”

 

“It’s still day,” Clint said, and then frowned. “Wait.”

 

Laura laughed. “You’re so cute,” she said, smiling at him. Natasha came back to the table, taking a seat, and Laura glanced at her. “How’s our houseguest doing?”

 

“She’s okay. I gave her the tour.” Natasha leaned back in her chair. “I think she’s still a little shaken by what happened at the training center.”

 

Laura nodded. Clint had called her to give her the summary, and it had chilled her to the bone. “I can imagine,” she said. She looked down at Nate, at his quiet, peaceful face. Her baby boy, surrounded by so much love--his parents, his siblings, Natasha, his grandparents, his uncles. To think of her Nathaniel, of any of her children, alone in the world...She shuddered, looking up at Clint. “How did you get her to come?”

 

Clint gave a soft smile. “I let her look in my head,” he said.

 

Natasha started, looking at him sharply. “You _what_? Do you have any idea how dangerous--”

 

“Of course I did,” he said, his voice just as sharp. No, Laura thought, not _sharp_ , just firm; it was his mission voice, his _I know what I’m doing_ voice, a voice Laura rarely heard. “But she needed to trust me. To see that this place was safe for her, that I wasn’t a threat to her. That I didn’t want to hurt her.” His gaze flickered down to Nate, his eyes tender. “She needed to see what I was protecting. That I was willing to be vulnerable.”

 

Laura smiled. _That_ was her Hawkeye. He might miss her haircut or a manicure, but he always, always saw what was important.

 

Upstairs, the shower shut off. Laura glanced up at the ceiling, and pushed herself to her feet. “I’m going to bring Wanda some clothes,” she said, handing Nate to Clint.

 

Natasha frowned up at her. “She brought a bag.”

 

“She needs something that wasn’t issued by a government agency,” Laura said, brushing her fingers through Natasha’s hair. “I’ll loan her some jeans. Something from before I was pregnant will probably fit her if she belts them. Clint, you’re losing another flannel.”

 

“I’ve barely got any left,” Clint complained, but Laura just laughed and headed upstairs.

 

The door to the hall bathroom was still closed, so Laura headed straight for the master bedroom, rummaging in her dresser for a pair of jeans. She found some at the bottom of the drawer in a size that would likely only fit her again if she went in for some kind of surgery-- _I love my children_ , she reminded herself--and found a grey v-neck shirt that had been worn to softness over several years. In the closet, she found a flannel that shirt that smelled of her lavender laundry soap and, very faintly, of Clint’s body wash, and pulled it off the hanger with a smile. She folded the clothes into a pile and carried them down the hallway. The bathroom door was open now, but the second guest room door was closed, and she knocked on it gently. “Wanda?” she called softly.

 

A quiet pause, and then the door opened, revealing a young woman with a pale face and large blue eyes, wet hair hanging dark and slightly curly around her shoulders. “Yes?”

 

Laura smiled, as kindly as she could, trying to put the girl at ease. “I’m Laura,” she said. “Clint’s wife. I brought you some clothes.”

 

“Oh.” Wanda hesitated, one hand curling into the place where her towel was folded around her body. “I brought some.”

 

“I know. Natasha told me. But I thought you might want some that were…” She shrugged. “Well. Not from SHIELD.”

 

Wanda’s lips parted. After a moment, she gave a small smile. “Thank you,” she said. “That’s...thank you.” Laura held out the bundle, and Wanda took it, tracing her fingertips over the fabric of the flannel shirt. “Are these yours?”

 

“Mine and Clint’s,” Laura said. “Don’t worry. They’re clean.”

 

“I wasn’t worried, I just…” Wanda touched the buttons on the flannel, her eyes distant. “It’s been a long time since someone offered to share something with me that was theirs. Pietro and I shared all the time, but not...not other people.” She looked up at Laura, and Laura was struck by how _young_ she looked. She knew that Wanda was in her twenties, but in this moment, she looked like a girl, not a young woman, and Laura felt a sudden urge to fold her into her arms like she did with Lila, to stroke her hair and promise her that everything would be okay.

 

But it wouldn’t, she knew. No matter how much time passed, Wanda was a twin without a twin, and that wound would never really heal. Laura reached out a hesitant hand and placed it on top of Wanda’s. “This is a safe place,” she said quietly. “I know Clint told you that, and Nat probably did, too, but I wanted you to hear it from me. And for as long as you’re here, our home is open to you. We’ll share what we have with you. Our clothes, our food, our space. Our care. You can ask for whatever you need, and we’ll do our best to give it to you.”

 

Wanda looked up at her, blinking uncertainly. “I…” She took a deep breath. “Why would you do this for me? It was Pietro who saved Clint. Not me.”

 

Laura smiled gently. “This isn’t about your brother,” she said. “This is about you, Wanda. You’re a person. You deserve a safe, warm place to come to when you’re feeling scared, or sad, or tired. That’s something that every person deserves, and you’re no exception.” She squeezed Wanda’s hand. “Okay?”

 

Slowly, and then with a bit more confidence, Wanda nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered.

 

Laura squeezed her hand again. “You’re welcome.”

 

**2004**

 

It sounds bad, but Clint barely remembers his legal wedding.

 

He remembers parts of it, of course. He remembers his eyes blurring as Laura walks down the aisle towards him, sheathed in white, framed by her parents. He remembers the squeeze of Natasha’s fingers around his wrist as he steps forward and takes Laura’s hands, the radiance in Laura’s face as she looks up at him. He remembers that he doesn’t fuck up his lines in English or Hebrew, he remembers the slide of cool metal onto his right index finger and how Laura’s hands tremble in his, he remembers the decisive _crunch_ of glass under his foot.

 

He remembers bits and pieces of the reception--dancing with Laura, dancing with Nat. He remembers Laura’s brothers lifting him up onto a chair and trying with all his energy not to fall off the damn thing. He thinks he remembers drinking a lot, but he’s not quite sure about that. He remembers laughing until his face hurts, remembers dancing with both of Laura’s tiny grandmothers, remembers their lipstick smearing on his cheeks.

 

But what he remembers most is what happens afterward.

 

It’s Natasha’s job to drive Clint and Laura to what everyone else believes is their honeymoon suite. Instead, they drive north to a tiny lakeside cottage they’ve rented for the next week. They change their clothes, Laura and Natasha into loose, comfortable white sundresses, Clint into jeans and a white button-down shirt. Laura scrubs away her wedding makeup, and she’s fresh-faced and gorgeous as they walk, barefoot, down to the lake.

 

The water laps cool and sweet against Clint’s ankles as he steps into it. The ring Laura had placed on his finger that morning is in a box in his pocket, along with Laura’s ring, and one other. The sunlight over the lake paints Natasha’s red hair with streaks of gold and glitters on the silver chain around Laura’s neck, and Clint catches his breath at how beautiful they are.

 

He’s not a crier and he’s already cried once today, but he’s pretty sure he’ll do it again before the day is out.

 

They stand together in silence for a few moments, listening to the soft sounds of the water, the whisper of the wind through the trees and the reeds, the birdcalls and the hum of dragonflies. Laura breaks the silence, and her voice is soft.

 

“When I was a little girl,” she says, “I used to dream about my wedding day. And it was always traditional, the kind of thing I’d see in movies. I thought I’d have a family and it would be simple and easy and natural, never complicated.” She smiles, reaches out, touches Natasha’s cheek, Clint’s jaw. “What the two of you have given me...it’s so much better than any of that. You’ve taught me so much about strength, about resilience. About teamwork and love. You make me worry and you make me crazy and my hair’s going to go grey, but I couldn’t love you more than I do. And I feel so blessed to be able to love you for the rest of my life.”

 

Her eyes shine with unshed tears when she finishes talking, and Natasha reaches out to take her hand, brushing her lips over Laura’s knuckles. She looks at Clint, and her eyes say, _please_.

 

Clint swallows, and he speaks. “I never thought I was gonna have a family,” he says, and his voice feels rough and raw in his throat. “And then I met Tasha, and I thought, okay, this is good. This is right. And Nat, God, you were so amazing for me. You saved my life again and again and again.” He looks at Laura, and his heart swells in his chest. “Laura, when I met you, it was like--it was like something clicked into place, something I hadn’t realized was missing. It took both of you to make me feel like a whole person. I can’t put into words--I’m not good with them, you know that--but you two put me together when I was broken, got me up onto my feet when I thought for sure I was down for good. I can’t imagine my life without you both, and I swear that I’ll do everything I can to fight for you, to come back to you, until my dying day.”

 

He feels clumsy and clunky, and almost misses the simple vows he’d been given to recite earlier that day. But Laura and Natasha look at him like he’s the sun, so maybe, he thinks, he did okay.

 

It’s Natasha’s turn, and her face is hesitant and unsure as she looks back and forth between them. “You know,” she begins. Her voice catches in her throat, and she takes a slow, deep breath. Laura reaches for her hand, laces their fingers together, and she manages a small smile. “You know what I was made for,” she says, her voice a little stronger now. “I was trained to avoid weaknesses, and attachments, relationships, those were the greatest weakness of all.” She takes another breath. “You two showed me that people can be a strength, not a weakness.” She looks at Clint. “That recklessness is sometimes what’s called for, that endurance is more than just physical stamina, that faith can be stronger than doubt.” Her gaze shifts to Laura, and Clint sees the love in her eyes. “That strength is more than the ability to handle a weapon. That sacrifice and patience go beyond the battlefield. That kindness can be the strongest weapon, because it’s not really a weapon at all.”

 

She licks her lips, and the tears spill, unchecked over her cheeks. “You let me vulnerable,” she whispers. “You let me be more than what they made me. You believe in me, and more than that, you’ve let _me_ believe in things again. In family, in safety. In l-love.” She takes a shuddering breath, and Clint can see the effort it takes for her to say the word, at the pride shining on her face now that she has. “I can never thank you enough for that.”

 

Quiet falls over them again, and it’s a peaceful silence, calm and safe. Clint reaches into his pocket and pulls out the box, opening it carefully. He pulls out the small, white gold ring he’d given to Laura that morning, and together, he and Natasha slide it onto Laura’s finger. He takes the yellow gold band that Laura had put onto his finger and passes it to Natasha, and she and Laura gently put it onto his finger. And then, with shaking hands--because part of him, a small, scared, wondering part, a part that is still awed and amazed that Natasha is allowing this--he draws out the simple rose gold ring, and he and Laura, together, place it onto Natasha’s trembling finger. Rings exchanged, they step impossibly closer to each other, all six of their hands meeting between them, fingers lacing and tangling together as they bend their heads. Clint feels like a child in church, bowing his hands to pray, and thinks that this is the closest he’s felt to God in decades.

 

“With these rings,” Clint whispers, speaking the vows he’d agonized over for months, trying to find the right words, and knowing that no words could ever be perfect, “I promise to love you when we’re together and when we’re apart. I promise to call you to say goodnight whenever I can, to pick up my socks, and to trust you and support you in whatever ways I can, and to always come home to you both.”

 

Natasha tightens her fingers around theirs. “With these rings, I promise to trust and cherish you both,” she says, her voice trembling. “I promise to trust your faith in me and to do everything I can to believe you when you say that you love and care for me. I promise to give as much of myself to you as I can, to keep working to give you all of me, and to fight for both of you, every day of my life.”

 

“Not so much fighting, I hope,” Laura teases gently, and Natasha laughs.

 

“No. Maybe not.”

 

Laura smiles, lifting their joined hands to her lips and kissing first Natasha’s knuckles, and then his. “With these rings,” she says gently, “I promise to create homes full of love and safety, homes that you can always come home to and trust that you’ll find me there with bandages and disinfectant and care. I promise to love you through easy times and difficult ones, to respect your pasts and help you find happiness in your futures, and to always see the good in you, because there is so, so much of it.”

 

Clint wants to say _amen_ , he wants to say _I do_ , he wants to say, _that was gorgeous_. Instead, he says, “God, I love you,” and it doesn’t matter who he says it to, because an instant later they’re both in his arms. He’s not expecting it and he goes crashing into the water, landing hard on his ass with Nat and Laura twined laughing around and on top of him. He sputters and says, “I think I just swallowed a minnow,” and Natasha’s giggles turn into absolute cackles, while Laura wipes lakewater from his eyebrows and kisses him on his wet mouth. Natasha runs gentle fingers through his hair; she kisses Laura sweetly and then kisses Clint much less sweetly, and of all the kisses they’ve shared over the years, this one soars to claim the top spot on his list of favorites.

 

(Earlier, at the reception, Laura’s father had brought Clint a drink and asked him if he felt married yet. Clint had admitted, a little awkwardly, that he didn’t. Cal had laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder. “It hasn’t sunk in yet,” he said. “You’ll know the feeling, when it hits. And it’s the best damn feeling in the world.”)

 

There’s no rabbi here, no witnesses beyond the birds and the dragonflies and the tiny fish splashing around Clint’s ankles, but sitting in the cool water, wet and laughing with Natasha and Laura in his arms, he feels _married_.

 

 _Cal was right_ , he thinks, as the sun shines down on them, golden and warm, and Laura’s lips brush his cheek, and Natasha’s fingertips wander down under the hem of his shirt, the metal of her ring just touching his skin.

 

It feels perfect.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings this chapter: brief discussion of death and canon-typical violence, reference to genocide, reference to sad character backstories (see previous chapter notes for the full list, but there's nothing explicitly mentioned in this chapter).
> 
> A note on Wanda's religion: One of the things that made me most upset about _Age of Ultron_ was the erasure of Wanda and Pietro's Jewish heritage, which was, I've always felt, an incredibly important part of their characters, particularly Wanda's. As a Jewish woman myself, it's rare for us to find ourselves represented explicitly in movies--especially in a blockbuster like _AOU_ , and for that to have been erased, in the way that it was erased, was hugely upsetting for me. What I've done here is try to reclaim a bit of that heritage for Wanda, and to try and understand what would make a young Jewish woman let herself work with an organization like Hydra, given its ties to the Nazi party. This is going to be explored further in future chapters, and I'm looking forward to getting deeper into Wanda as I write.
> 
> On a lighter note: Finally, we have had a wedding! You should all know that it was harder for me to write Clint, Natasha, and Laura's wedding vows than it was for me to write my own. Because I just care _that_ much. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, to everyone who has continued to leave such wonderful comments on this fic, both here and [at my tumblr](http://geniusorinsanity.tumblr.com). Special thanks to my wonderful proofreader [Deb](http://debz0rz.tumblr.com), and to [nathanielbarton](http://nathanielbarton.tumblr.com) for the amazing gifsets!
> 
> Lastly, a quick updates on updates: I'm hoping to stay on a biweekly-ish posting schedule, but I'm starting a new job in October, and National Novel Writing Month starts in just over a month. I promise to update just as quickly as I can. For ongoing updates on the progress for this fic, you can follow me [on tumblr](http://geniusorinsanity.tumblr.com). Thank you for your ongoing understanding and patience! Y'all are the best. :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally have no excuse for taking this long to post, other than being really tired and cranky all the time and not wanting to pour my crankiness into the fic. So instead, you get a belated update, but one that is literally brimming with feels. Fair compromise?

 

**2005**

 

The first year of marriage goes by in a blur.

 

For all the time they’ve spent together, marriage feels different--and Laura loves it. She loves the weight of her ring on her finger, the physical reminder of the vows they’ve made to each other. She loves Clint’s cheerful “hello, wife!” when she comes through the door of the apartment after work; loves the way Natasha’s lips linger on Laura’s ring when she kisses her way along Laura’s body. She loves calling Clint “my husband” to her co-workers, loves whispering “my beautiful wife” to Natasha when they waltz together in the living room.

 

They hit roadblocks, too. Laura plays peacemaker more often than seems fair when Clint and Natasha argue; clashing, as they so often do, over Clint’s recklessness, Natasha’s overwhelming need for perfection. When they’re gone on jobs, she spends sleepless nights worrying about every possible harm that could come to them, fiddling with their rings on the their chain around her neck. Clint falls off buildings and bridges and moving cars and is always covered in bandages, and he snaps at them when they yell at him for his carelessness with his safety. Natasha’s insecurity over Clint and Laura’s legal marriage descends into dark, brooding moods, and after the fourth or fifth or sixth time, Laura loses her patience and makes dealing with those moods Clint’s problem.

 

But they get through it. Clint and Natasha work as well together as a team as they ever have, Clint’s reckless grace and Natasha’s trained precision melding in a seamless dance. Laura worries and worries but they always come home to her, racing each other to fumble down her blouse for their rings while Laura laughs and tries to catch their hands. Clint, bandaged and bruised, will sheepishly offer his limbs and scars for inspection and care, the closest he ever comes to admitting his mortality. Clint drags a brooding Natasha to a gun range and lets her shoot out her frustration, and when she comes home to Laura, contrite, Laura kisses the ring on Natasha’s finger and takes her out for a date on the town.

 

And so the first year of marriage passes, measured in stolen kisses and lengths of linen bandages, in take-out containers and throw pillows and quiet evenings tangled under the covers. It’s a beautiful year.

 

As her love affair with her spouses grows and blossoms, though, her love affair with their city starts to fade.

 

When she moved to New York for graduate school, the city was more of a dream than a real place. She’d visited before as a tourist, and growing up on Chicago’s outskirts made her no stranger to the sights and sounds and chaos of a major metropolitan area, but living in the city properly was new and magnificent. There was always something to do, somewhere to go, someone to go with, no matter the time of day, and for a student it was perfect--always more to learn, a place to immerse herself in history and culture and art. And sure, the rent of the tiny apartments she’d shared with friends probably had her grandfather rolling in his grave, and she’d thanked each and every one of her lucky stars when she’d finally given up her lease and moved in with Clint in Bed-Stuy, but she wouldn’t have traded those years in Manhattan for the world.

 

Teaching in New York, though--well.

 

She loves it, is the thing. She really does. Her school sits in the middle of the sort of neighborhood that her mother calls _rough_ with a delicate cough behind her hand, and Clint and Nat have spent two years fairly begging her to transfer to a safer district, but Laura refuses. She loves her kids, loves their brilliance and their creativity and their resilience, loves the way they smile at her praise, the shy pride in good work so often hidden under layers of cockiness and insecurity. And she loves her job, from arguing with the budget committees to stressing about lesson plans.

 

Honestly, truly, she loves her job. But God, she is _tired_.

 

The hum and roar of the city, so hypnotizing when she first arrived, exhausts her now. She finds herself longing for clear country skies, for the sight of stars unhidden by smog and light pollution. She misses cool, crisp air without the myriad blending smells of a hundred cuisines, the utter quiet of a starlit night.

 

“I don’t know what to do,” she tells her grandmother, a little miserably.

 

They’re sitting together on the porch of her grandparents’ old farmhouse, drinking lavender-mint tea brewed from the herbs Nonny dries herself on her kitchen windowsill. The crisp April wind ruffles Laura’s hair and brings a flush to her cheeks, and she shivers, grateful for her sweater and the knitted afghan across their laps.

 

“I mean,” she continues, rocking the porch swing slightly, “I love my job, I really do. But my kids--there’s so much hurt there. It’s exhausting, _all_ the time. I come home, and it’s just…” She shakes her head. “I feel _drained_.”

 

“Mm.” Nonny looks thoughtful, sipping her tea. “Well,” she says after a moment, “You could move here.”

 

Laura chokes on her tea. Nonny, cackling far more than is really grandmotherly, pats her on the back. “Sorry,” Laura sputters finally, when most of the tea clears her lungs, “I thought you said I could move _here_.”

 

“Well, not _just_ you,” Nonny says. “You’d have to bring Clint, anyone can see he’s a lost puppy without you. But his work is so much travelling anyway, it’s not like he really needs to stay in that city any more than you do.” Laura just stares at her, and Nonny sighs. “Lola, love,” she says, much gentler now, “I’m old. And since your Poppy died...well, this is just too much house for an old lady living alone. I want to keep the property in the family, it’s all paid off and we have so many memories here, but I talked with your father and your uncles, and they’re all settled where they are. But if you’re thinking of leaving the city anyway...the house could be yours.”

 

She runs her fingertips over the textured ceramic of her mug, and Laura watches. Laura’s senior project as an undergrad had been a series of paintings of hands, and her very favorite piece had been of Nonny’s, old and gnarled, wrapped around a pair of knitting needles as she crafted a blanket for Laura’s cousin’s baby, Nonny’s first great-grandchild. Nonny’s hands are _love_ and _comfort_ and _home_ in Laura’s heart, and always have been. “But Nonny,” she says, feeling very, very young, “This is--this is your home.”

 

Her grandmother smiles. “Yes,” she says. “And no one has ever appreciated the love in his house quite like you do. Watching you grow up here, running through the house and the fields, how much beauty and love you find in each little thing--Lola, it was one of the very great blessings of my life. I want you to watch your children the same way.”

 

Laura’s mouth goes very, very dry. _Children_ , she thinks, and her mind floods with images of children with her hair and Clint’s eyes and Tasha’s grace bounding through the old rooms of the farmhouse, sitting in this very porch swing, snuggled under the knitted blankets that Laura herself once turned into capes and magic carpets and pillow forts. _Oh_ , she thinks. _Oh_. “I don’t…” She swallows. Her mouth is dry, but her eyes feel suddenly wet. “I don’t know what to say.”

 

Nonny pats her hand. “There’s no rush,” she says, calm and kind. “You take your time and think about it. And cover up with your sweater, sweetheart. I don’t want to send you home with a cold.”

 

Laura goes home, and she thinks about it.

 

She thinks about it _all the time_.

 

She thinks about it watching Clint do Natasha’s makeup before she leaves for a job, wondering if he’d do that before ballet recitals and school dances and proms if they had a daughter. She thinks about it when Natasha cleans her guns, wondering if Natasha could change a diaper with the same brusque efficiency, and has to make up an excuse for why she’s just burst into laughter. She thinks about it at the park with Kelsey, pushing Kelsey’s one-year-old twins in their stroller and wondering what their kids would look like, what personalities they’d have, who they’d move like or talk like, whose expressions would wrinkle their tiny noses.

 

(The only person she _tells_ about what she’s thinking is Kelsey, and Kelsey spends fifteen minutes cackling into her daughter’s toes and crowing that she’d _told_ Laura her biological clock would catch up to her someday. Laura doesn’t push her off the park bench, but only because she’s holding the baby, and even then, it’s a close call.)

 

The point is, now that she’s started thinking about babies, she _can’t stop_ thinking about babies. And that means that when she finally does say something about it to one of the other people involved in the _making_ of babies, it’s not in the careful, planned, conversational manner she’d had planned.

 

No, instead she’s straddling Clint in bed, working him in her hand and kissing a line of bites into his neck while he whispers a string of filthy obscenities in her ear, and she looks at him and says, “God, you’re so gorgeous, we should absolutely have a baby,” and Clint gasps and shudders and comes all over her hand.

 

And then he blinks, looks up at her, and says, “Wait, what?”

 

Which is, of course, when Natasha walks into the room. She takes in the sight of the two of them on the bed, and raises her eyebrows. “I missed something,” she says dryly.

 

Laura flushes crimson. “We were going to wait for you,” she begins, but Clint, the traitor, blurts out, “Laura wants to have a baby!”

 

For a long moment, Natasha just looks at them, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and discomfort. “I’m going to go make a drink,” she says finally, turning on her heel and leaving the bedroom.

 

As soon as she disappears from sight, Laura smacks Clint’s chest. “Traitor,” she hisses.

 

“I panicked! You just sprung it on me!” Clint sputters, fumbling on the nightstand for a tissue and clumsily wiping up the mess on his stomach and Laura’s hand. He holds onto her palm and brings her hand up to his lips, dropping a quick, apologetic kiss to her fingers.

 

Laura sighs. “It’s okay. I’ll go--damage control.” She puts her bra back on and steals one of Clint’s sweatshirts, zipping it up and padding down the stairs after Natasha. Behind her, she can hear Clint swearing as he attempts to get his foot into a pair of scrub pants but ends up falling over with a squawk. Stifling a snort, Laura reaches the landing and peers around the corner into the kitchen. “Nat?” she asks, hesitant.

 

Natasha eyes her from where she’s pouring herself a cup of coffee. A bottle of Grand Manier sits next to it, and Laura raises her eyebrows, unsure if she’s wanted. Natasha must sense her hesitance, because she gives Laura a small, soft smile. “I’m not mad at you, Laura. Do you want a cup?”

 

“Just coffee,” Laura says, relaxing at the softness in Natasha’s eyes, even if she can still see the guarded walls on her face. If she’s going to have this talk, she needs to do it sober.

 

Clint stumbles into the room, rubbing his hip ruefully. “I smell coffee.”

 

Natasha dumps a generous amount of liquor into a mug, adds a dollop of coffee, and passes it to him. He clinks it against hers, takes a sip, grimaces, and then looks expectantly at Laura.

 

The gaze he turns on her doesn’t have quite the same intensity as the sniper stare she’s seen from time to time, but Laura’s skin still tingles under it. She takes a sip of her coffee to calm her nerves, savoring the smooth blend. Of all the ways she’d planned to have this conversation with them, a situation like this hadn’t even made the list of potential scenarios. Then again, she thinks wryly, knowing their luck, maybe she should have planned better. She takes a few slow, deep breaths, reminds herself that they love her, and decides to be direct. “I want to have a baby.”

 

She pauses, waiting for their reactions. Natasha’s face has gone carefully blank. Clint’s expression is much harder to read, and Laura knows, instantly, that it’s because he doesn’t want his reaction to sway Natasha’s. Laura gets that, and it warms her heart to see how cautious he is with her, especially about things like this. But she can see hope and excitement and uncertainty in his eyes, too, and she thinks back to his reaction to her stumbled confession upstairs only a few minutes ago with a flush. Clint, whatever he’s trying to keep off his face, is at least somewhat on board. She swallows. “One of you say something.”

 

They exchange one of their long, quiet, assassin glances. Natasha speaks first. “Before I say anything about what I think about this,” she says slowly. “Have you thought this through? Wanting to have kids with people like us?”

 

Clint coughs discreetly. “I think what she means,” he says, his voice careful and measured, “is...why?”

 

Laura turns her mug in her hands, thoughtful. “Because I love you,” she says. “I know that’s a simpler answer than is really fair. And that we really should have had this conversation already, since I’m pretty sure something like kids is up there on the top of the list of things you’re supposed to talk about before you get married, but it just never came up for us. So we didn’t.”

 

Natasha’s lips quirk. “Yes,” she says. “Someone kept getting himself blown up during wedding planning.”

 

Clint makes an affronted noise. “That happened _twice_ ,” he mutters into his coffee.

 

Laura smiles, reaching to gently brush her fingers over a fading scar on Clint’s shoulder. “Two times too many,” she says. Clint quirks a small smile and kisses her fingertips, and she taps his nose with her forefinger before leaning back, tilting her head to look at Natasha. “It came up when I was talking with my grandmother,” she says. “She said something about watching me grow up, and how much of a blessing it was for her. And I just realized that...I want that. I want to see the kind of children we’d have, and I want...I want the privilege of raising those kids.”

 

Natasha arches her eyebrows high enough that they nearly vanish into her hairline. “Really,” she says, not quite a question. Skeptical.

 

“Really,” Laura says firmly, refusing to indulge Natasha’s self-deprecating streak today. “Putting aside the fact that any combination of our genetics will turn out adorable kids, think about--think about the kind of people they’d be.” She runs her thumbs over the textured ceramic of her mug, grounding herself in the motion. “You two are the most amazing people I’ve ever met,” she says quietly. “Your strength, your resilience, your kindness, your humor--I love both of you so much that sometimes my heart feels like it’s bursting.” Her eyes feel bright and she looks up at them, taking in the way they look at her, soft and calm and loving. “I think we should do it,” she says. “I really do.”

 

She holds Natasha’s gaze, doing her best to keep her own steady. Natasha’s lips part, and there’s so much there in her face that Laura feels her chest ache--longing and fear and worry and something else, something that Laura, for all the time she spends studying Natasha’s every micro-expression, can’t quite place. Natasha takes a visibly deep breath. “How would we do it?”

 

Laura relaxes a fraction. If they’re onto _how_ , she thinks, it must not be a definite _no_. “It depends,” she says. “I’ve looked it into a bit, and they do some really cool stuff with IVF these days--we could take one of your eggs and have it fertilized and implanted and then I’d carry it, and it could be all of ours. We’d probably have to fudge some paperwork, but, you know--” she flashes a grin as humor flickers in Clint’s eyes-- “That’s never really been a disincentive for you guys. I know the IVF route isn’t as sexy, but I figured, you know, the kid would be all of ours. But we can do it the old-fashioned way, too.”

 

Natasha’s expression goes tense. “I…” She takes another breath, clearly trying to calm herself. “I won’t get pregnant.”

 

She sounds terrified as she says it, and Laura reaches out instinctively, curling her hands around Natasha’s. “No, sweetheart, of course,” she says, raising Natasha’s hands to her lips. “I know you won’t.” Natasha’s eyes go wide and flash to Clint, but Laura continues. “I know how careful you are with your body, Tasha--how much you need to trust it, to know every single thing it can do, to be in total control. I knew that if we had kids, I’d be carrying them. That’s okay. I want that. I do.”

 

The trembling in Natasha’s hands eases slightly. Slowly, her shoulders lose some of their tension, her eyes softening again. “You do?”

 

Laura smiles. “Women in my family have good pregnancies,” she says. “And I’ve always wanted to be a mom.”

 

Natasha breathes in through her nose, and she brushes her thumbs over Laura’s knuckles, just brushing the ring on her left hand. “I don’t know how to be a parent,” she says. “You know that. It’s not like I had any models.”

 

Laura doesn’t laugh, because she knows it’s not the right time, but she does smile, squeezing her hands. “Nobody knows how to be a parent,” she says simply. “You just have to be willing to give it a try.”

 

A long moment goes by, Natasha looking down at their joined hands, Laura waiting, patiently. She wishes she could know what was happening in Natasha’s head, wishes she could take every horrible thought and memory that is no doubt swirling around her mind and challenge and break them down one at a time. She wishes, with a sudden streak of violence, that she could go back in time and kill each and every person who took the amazing woman in front of her and tried to take her apart.

 

She’s aware of Clint beside them, sniper-still, watching them as his coffee goes cool in his hands, and doesn’t dare look at him, too afraid of what she might see in his face. She knows, deep down, that Clint wants kids--she sees it in the way he grins at her students when he visits her at school, the way he talks about his days in the circus, performing for local kids--and she can’t bear to see what his face will look like if Natasha says no.

 

Because it is, she knows, in Natasha’s hands. Laura wants kids, but she wants Natasha more.

 

Finally, Natasha breathes out and looks up at them. She holds Laura’s gaze for a long moment, her eyes thoughtful and hesitant, but calm, comfortable. Then she looks at Clint. “You’re very quiet, Barton,” she says. “Shouldn’t the hypothetical father have input?”

 

Clint exhales slowly, and Laura watches him come back to the present moment, settling back into this physical space, away from wherever he goes when he’s waiting for whatever signal it is that calls him back. He runs his thumb over his wedding band. “I don’t know--” He swallows, then clears his throat, raising his chin. He looks at Laura, vulnerability soft in his eyes. “What if I’m not a good dad?”

 

Laura’s heart breaks. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says, and releases Natasha’s hands to step closer to him. Clint bends his head into her chest and she curls one hand around his shoulders, stroking her fingers through the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. She presses a kiss to the top of his head and then cups his chin in her hands, forcing him to look up at her. “Clint, you are the kindest, most compassionate man I have ever met,” she says. She means every word, and she can tell that Clint knows it, moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes. She kisses his forehead, looking from him to Natasha, who has stepped around the counter to settle a hand on the small of Clint’s back, a quiet gesture of comfort. “I can’t think of anyone better to raise children with than two people who overcame horrible odds to become the most loving, amazing people I know,” she says quietly.

 

Clint closes his eyes, his lashes flickering slightly at the endearments, and Natasha takes a quick breath in. Clint looks up at Natasha, and she stares back at him. Laura lets the gaze pass between them, comfortable in it. Whatever silent conversation they’re having, she knows she’s said her piece. Now it comes down to them. Laura holds herself still, letting her hands drift from Clint’s cheeks to his neck, stroking her fingertips gently over the pulse there. She matches her breathing to Clint’s pulse, feeling his heartbeat sync with hers; she watches the rise and fall of Natasha’s chest and can see that she’s breathing in time with both of them.

 

Whatever they say, she thinks, they’ll be okay. She’ll be ready. She can handle it.

 

Natasha looks up at her, and she smiles. “Okay,” she says. Her voice is shaking, but there’s steel in it, and her smile reaches all the way up to the tears shining in the corner of her eyes. “Let’s have a baby.”

 

Clint whoops out a cheer and Laura bursts into tears, leaping into Natasha’s arms and covering her face in kisses, and clutches both of them to her until she’s not sure whose tears are running down her face.

 

Three months later, two lines appear on a pregnancy test, and Laura calls her grandmother.

 

**2015**

 

Wanda slept the afternoon away, and none of them had the heart to wake her, keeping their movements downstairs quiet and hushed, the way they did when Nate was napping. But in the early evening, while Laura moved through the kitchen getting dinner ready together and Clint took the truck across town to bring an overnight bag to the kids, Natasha tapped on Wanda’s door.

 

She heard quiet shuffling, and then the door opened, revealing Wanda’s tired face. “Hey,” Natasha said carefully. “You’ve been asleep for awhile. I thought I’d come check on you.”

 

Wanda smiled faintly. “Thank you,” she said. She opened the door more fully, letting Natasha in. The bedclothes were rumpled and twisted, as if Wanda had been tossing in her sleep. Natasha glanced at her again, looking more closely now, and took in the smudged circles under her eyes.

 

“Bad dreams?”

 

“Some.” Wanda hugged her arms around her chest. Clint’s flannel hung off her small frame, making her look younger than she was, but didn’t take away the understated steel in the set of her shoulders. “I was all right.”

 

Natasha nodded, looking around the room. It served a double purpose, half guest room and half playroom, and the double bed spent more time as a resting place for stuffed animals, the base for a blanket fort, or an afternoon of reading than it did as a bed for guests. Natasha had spent the twenty minutes of Wanda’s earlier shower returning scattered toys and books to their assigned shelves and organized boxes in an attempt to actually make the room livable for someone not used to navigating their steps around Legos and dolls.

 

(She could have, she knew, just given Wanda the room already made up for her, the one she had ostensibly been sleeping in since she’d arrived at the farm a week before. But something about letting Wanda see that level of the intimacy she shared with Clint and Laura felt too unsafe, and she’d informed Clint that Wanda would be in the playroom instead.)

 

“Laura’s working on dinner now,” she said, changing the subject, and saw faint relief flicker in Wanda’s eyes. “Are you feeling up to eating with us?”

 

Wanda nodded. “Are Hawkeye--are Clint’s other children going to be there?”

 

Natasha shook her head. “They’re spending the night at their uncle’s,” she said, and saw confusion dart across Wanda’s face. “Laura’s brother,” she clarified. “He lives nearby. He’s the one who actually runs the farm as a farm. Laura teaches, and Clint’s--well, he’s not really here enough, and anyway he’d be a shit farmer. Absolutely a black thumb.”

 

Wanda frowned. “A black thumb? I don’t understand.”

 

“Sorry. Idioms don’t translate well. He’s crap with plants, basically. Couldn’t even keep a cactus plant alive. Manages okay with kids, though.” Natasha smiled, leaning against the doorframe. “I was wondering if you wanted to go for a walk before dinner. Stretch your legs a bit. Between the flight and the sleeping, you’ve been pretty stationary all day, and it won’t do you any favors to be totally off your game when you get back to base.”

 

The skin around Wanda’s eyes tightened very slightly at the words _back to base_ , but she nodded. “A walk would be good.”

 

Laura smiled at them from the kitchen as they came downstairs, waving briefly from the stove. She had Nate in his sling around her chest, and Natasha took a moment to marvel, not for the first time, at how easily she seemed to know how to handle her body to keep him from getting too hot or too close to the oil in the pan. “Out into the world?”

 

“Just for a bit.” Natasha stopped to stroke a hand over Nate’s head, smiling when Laura stroked her free hand very lightly over her hip, just brushing under the hem of Natasha’s shirt. It was a subtle movement, probably not visible to Wanda, who was busying herself with her sneakers by the door, but it was comforting none the less. “We’ll be back before dinner.”

 

Laura hummed in acknowledgment, then looked over to Wanda. “Wanda, I’m just putting together some soup for dinner--something simple. Is that okay for you? Any allergies or anything?”

 

Wanda looked surprised to be asked, but she shook her head. “No. I eat anything.”

 

With a satisfied nod, Laura turned back to the stove, and Natasha squeezed her hip lightly before heading to the door. “Ready?” Wanda nodded, and Natasha led the way out the door.

 

They walked together in silence. Natasha followed the path towards the woods, Wanda matching her pace, their steps falling into an even pattern. The evening air was warm and comfortable, the light breeze ruffling their hair and clothing as they made their way across the fields.

 

As the trees closed over their heads, Wanda broke the silence, speaking quietly. “She’s not what I expected.”

 

Natasha glanced at her. “Laura?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What were you expecting?”

 

Wanda reached out to brush her fingertips over the bark of a tree as they passed it. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “It’s hard to explain. She’s very…” She looked thoughtful, and Natasha recognized the expression of someone trying to translate an idiom in their native tongue into a second or third language. “She has a strength to her that you wouldn’t see unless you look for it,” she said finally. “She holds herself like she is used to standing against very strong winds.”

 

Natasha felt her lips twitch upwards. “Have you met Clint?”

 

Wanda laughed, an almost startled-sounding sound, as if she wasn’t expecting it. “Yes,” she said. “But that is not what I meant.” She was quiet for a moment, and then said, “Is she alone here often? It seems unfair.”

 

“Not as often as you’d think,” Natasha said. “Clint’s gone sometimes, but she has family nearby, and she works in town. Half the people around here know who she is, and everyone who knows her loves her. Even if all of the security we have on this place failed, half the town would still turn out to fight anyone that tried to mess with her.” She felt a curl of feral pride, and smiled. “And even then, they’d find Laura to be enough of a fight on her own. She’s craftier than she looks.”

 

“Mothers often are,” Wanda said. She looked down at her feet, and then up at Natasha. “Doesn’t he worry? That something could happen when he wasn’t here?”

 

Natasha hesitated, trying to hear the question that Wanda seemed afraid to voice. “Something like what happened to your parents, you mean?”

 

Wanda nodded, her expression unreadable. “It could happen,” she said. “When there are wars, there is chaos. Things happen so quickly--sometimes no one can fight back.”

 

Natasha thought about that, trying to ease away the pit of fear and horror of the idea that Laura and the kids could be wiped off the world so easily, an idea she had spent years repressing and pushing away. “I think he knows that if something like that were to happen, he wouldn’t have any power over it even if he was here,” she said finally, when she trusted herself to speak. “And as Laura likes to remind us, she could get hit by a bus coming out of school any day of the week. We think about danger because it’s our job to do it, but she’s right that horrible things happen every day. It’s not a reason to not live our lives.”

 

“That’s true,” Wanda said, and glanced sidelong up at Natasha, her expression almost amused. “Does it keep you from worrying?”

 

“Not even slightly,” Natasha admitted with a smile of her own. “Don’t tell.”

 

“I’m sure she knows,” Wanda said. “She seems insightful.”

 

“Very.” Natasha ducked under a tree branch. “She uses it for good, though. She tends to know what to say. What people need.” She brushed her hair back from her face, wondering absently how long it would take to grow it back out long enough to pull it back. “It’s one of my favorite things about her.”

 

Wanda looked at her, thoughtful. “You must be very close,” she said slowly.

 

Something in her tone--not quite calculating, but certainly curious, gave Natasha pause. “We’ve been friends a long time,” she said carefully, trying to read Wanda’s face. Thoughtfulness, definitely, but nothing that suggested any motive beyond simple curiosity. And fair enough, Natasha thought, if she had been in Wanda’s place, she would have wanted all of the variables, too. “She’s home for me,” she said. “The house is where I come when the job is too much and I just need a break, but Laura’s what makes the house home. It was hers first, you know--her family’s anyway. It’s a part of her, and she’s a part of it. When I’m here with her, I know that I can tell her anything, and that she’ll listen, and not judge me. She’s trusting and protective all at once, and just about the bravest person I know.”

 

Wanda was quiet, walking alongside her with even footsteps despite the rough ground. “You’re very lucky to have her.”

 

Natasha snorted. “Don’t I know it,” she said, feeling a tingle of something she couldn’t quite place run along the back of her neck. Lucky, she’d said, the same way Clint said it when Natasha wouldn’t let him say _I love you_. She looked up, watching the sun flicker through the leaves and branches overhead, hovering closer to the horizon but not yet close to setting. “You’ve got her now too, you know,” she said, turning back to Wanda. “Once Laura gets her sights on someone she thinks needs a little extra feeding or caring, she doesn’t really tend to let go.”

 

“I’m not a little girl,” Wanda said, frowning. “I don’t need a mother.”

 

Of course you do, Natasha could practically hear Laura saying, and managed to suppress a smile. “I’m not saying that. But Laura’s a good person to have in your corner, and I think she’d be happy to be in yours.”

 

Wanda seemed to think about that for a moment. “I wouldn’t mind having someone in my corner,” she said slowly.

 

Natasha smiled. “I think she’d be glad to hear that.”

 

**2005**

 

The first trimester of Laura’s pregnancy passes smoothly enough. She’s rarely sick, only occasionally nauseous, and her biggest complaint is that she’s constantly exhausted. For the first few months, Natasha finds her asleep in more strange places than seems possible: in the bathtub, curled up on her yoga mat on the floor, and once, on one very memorable occasion, at the kitchen table, her face buried in her bagel.

 

To Natasha’s surprise, she finds Laura’s pregnancy...not _easy_ to deal with, but easier than she’d expected. Laura’s happiness in it makes it simpler, and Natasha can’t help the warmth that goes through her every time she catches Laura running an absent-minded hand over the slowly growing curve of her belly. She finds herself noticing and cataloguing the other changes in Laura’s body--the slight shift in her walk as her body adjusts to changes in her center of gravity, the heavier weight of her breasts in Natasha’s hands, the way her hair seems thicker, fuller, shining when the sunlight catches it through their windows.

 

Clint, to absolutely no one’s surprise, delights in every moment. He goes out in the middle of the night to cobble together the random foods Laura craves, he devours baby book after baby book and--until Laura, laughing so hard she almost pees, bans the practice--has an apparently wonderful time reading particularly horrifying bits of them aloud as theatrically as possible, he spends half an hour every night massaging Laura’s feet when she starts mentioning that they hurt after walking around her classroom all day. Watching him dote on her makes Natasha smile, simultaneously fond and amused. She knows that Clint is channeling all of his anxiety about fatherhood into showering Laura with attention and love, and for now, at least, she’s willing to let him get away with it. She catches Laura eyeing him with the same suspicion sometimes, and knows that she’s reached the same conclusion.

 

When the second trimester starts, some of Laura’s luck seems to run out as the morning sickness she’s managed to avoid so far hits her hard. All of a sudden the apartment seems constantly stocked with ginger products, and Natasha’s learned to make rice, bread, and applesauce as interesting as bland food can be. It’s still not very interesting, but she thinks Laura appreciates the effort.

 

Throughout the whole pregnancy so far, Laura’s been almost as gentle with Natasha as Natasha has been with her, careful and hesitant when talking with her about the changes in her body, always asking if she wants to touch her belly. At first Natasha thinks she’s self-conscious, and Laura eases up on that when Natasha makes it clear that she finds her as gorgeous as ever--more so, honestly, not that she would have even believed it possible--but she still seems to be treating Natasha with hesitant hands.

 

On a rainy morning in November, she finds out why.

 

They’re sitting on the floor in the bathroom, Natasha holding a glass of ginger ale and a plate of saltines while Laura throws up the toast she’d managed to get down at breakfast.

 

“Sorry,” Laura says miserably when she’s done, sitting back on her heels and pushing her hair back.

 

“Don’t be.” Natasha holds out the ginger ale. Laura washes her mouth and spits, and then leans against the wall, closing her eyes. “Are you okay?”

 

“Peachy,” Laura says. “Just this child actively attempting to strip away my stomach lining, apparently.”

 

Natasha offers her a sympathetic smile and a cracker. “I think that’s part of the process, unfortunately.”

 

Laura nibbles grumpily at the corner of the cracker. “Well, it’s crap,” she mutters. “You can carry the next one.” Natasha suppresses a wince, but Laura flinches like she’s just said something terrible, her eyes widening as she looks up at Natasha. “Oh, Tasha,” she says, looking suddenly ready to cry. “I’m sorry.”

 

“What?” Natasha frowns. “What’s wrong?”

 

“I shouldn’t have said that.” Laura blinks furiously, like she’s suppressing tears. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“Laura, relax.” Natasha puts the plate of crackers down, leaning forward. “What should you not have said?”

 

Laura looks at her, her lower lip trembling. “Saying that you could have the next one. I know you don’t want to get pregnant, you said it when we were talking about having this one--it’s not fair for me to even joke about it just because I’m cranky.”

 

Natasha stares at her. _She doesn’t know_ , she thinks, amazed at how they could have come this far into the pregnancy without Laura knowing. “Oh,” she says, her voice sounding very distant.

 

Something must be showing on her face, because Laura’s brow furrows in confusion. “Tasha? What is it?”

 

“It’s…” Natasha trails off. She feels sick to her stomach at the idea of telling Laura about graduation at a time like this, and she swallows, hard. “I don’t know if now’s the right time to tell you.”

 

Laura frowns. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

 

“You’re pregnant,” Natasha reminds her.

 

“I’m aware,” Laura says dryly, her eyes narrowing. Natasha hesitates, and Laura’s expression softens. “Nat,” she says, her voice gentle. “What are you not telling me?”

 

Natasha takes a deep breath. “I--” She breaks off. “Not here. Come on.”

 

She gets to her feet and helps Laura get unsteadily to hers, keeping a hand on the small of Laura’s back as she wavers slightly. At five months pregnant Laura isn’t huge, but the change in her body’s balance is more than enough to make her wobble and sway when she changes positions. She takes Laura’s hand and leads her to the bedroom, setting the glass of ginger ale on the bedside table and sitting down on the edge of the bed.

 

Laura sits down next to her, waiting, her expression patient and kind. “Take your time,” she offers.

 

“No, it’s okay. If I wait, I’ll leave.” Natasha runs her hands through her hair, closing her eyes for a moment. “Okay,” she says, taking another deep breath. “Okay,” she says again, and she tells Laura everything.

 

The words come out slow and halting at first, almost painful in the way they force themselves past her lips. Natasha sees these memories in her nightmares, sometimes, but she hasn’t voiced them out loud in five years, not since she’d told this same story to Clint. Where Clint had listened in quiet stillness, the brightness of his eyes the only indication of pain, Laura’s eyes were wide and wet as she listened, tears spilling silent and unchecked over her cheeks. Her fingers grip Natasha’s like she’s afraid Natasha might disappear if she loosens her grip, but Natasha is grateful for the pressure, lets it ground her into the here and now, keep her from drifting back to that cold, bright room.

 

When Natasha finally runs out of words, her throat feels raw and hoarse. Laura hasn’t said anything, and Natasha swallows, tightening her fingers around Laura’s. “Please say something,” she whispers.

 

Laura takes a long, shaking breath, and fresh tears fall over her cheeks. “I wish,” she says, her voice trembling with what Natasha realizes with a start is cold rage, “That those people were still alive. So I could kill them myself.”

 

Natasha feels a pang in her chest. “No,” she says, lifting their joined hands to her mouth. “Not you, love. No blood on your hands. Not for me.”

 

“Only for you,” Laura whispers, her grip on Natasha’s fingers tightening. “It would only be worth it for you.”

 

Tears prickle at Natasha’s eyes and she closes them, trying to keep them from falling. Laura reaches out and tugs at her gently, and Natasha goes willingly into her arms, letting Laura hold her tight. With her eyes closed and her senses heightened, she thinks she can even feel the baby’s heartbeat against her cheek. Being so close to something so vulnerable makes her shudder, but Laura’s arms only tighten around her. “No,” she says from above her. “Don’t pull away like you don’t deserve to be here.”

 

“I really don’t,” Natasha says, her words half-muffled into Laura’s belly. “I don’t deserve to be somebody’s mother, Laura. Not after what I’ve done. Maybe it’s better that they--”

 

“ _No_.” Laura pulls sharply away from her, her wet eyes blazing as she tilts Natasha’s face up to look at her. The protective fury in her face takes Natasha by surprise. “You _absolutely_ deserve to be a mother,” she says fiercely, her thumbs surprisingly gentle as she brushes them over Natasha’s cheeks. “And you’re going to be. Do you think this baby is any less yours just because it doesn’t have your genes? You think you’re going to be any less its parent than me or Clint?”

 

“I--” Natasha hesitates. “I don’t know.”

 

Laura’s jaw drops. “Natasha,” she says, her voice gone quiet and deadly calm, “Have you been spending this entire pregnancy thinking that when this baby came, you’d somehow get shoved to the sidelines?”

 

Natasha swallows. “Not consciously,” she admits. “But…” She closes her eyes, and feels Laura’s thumbs brush away the fresh tears there. “I don’t know. I didn’t realize.”

 

“Oh, Tasha,” Laura sighs. Natasha opens her eyes and sees Laura looking at her with tender affection, her eyes soft and loving. Laura lifts Natasha’s hand and kisses her wedding ring. “I love you,” she says. “You are every bit this baby’s mother. There is no one I’d rather share parenthood with than you and Clint. _Both_ of you.” She looks at Natasha, intense and serious. “Do you understand?”

 

Not trusting herself to speak, Natasha nods, and lets Laura pull her back into her arms. She rests her head on the swell of Laura’s belly, and lifts one hand to press against it. “Hello, baby,” she murmurs.

 

For the first time, she feels the flutter of a kick against her palm. She catches her breath in wonder, and snaps her head up to look at Laura. “I felt him,” she says, awe turning her voice to a whisper, and Laura smiles.

 

**2015**

 

Laura could cook with the best with them, and Clint loved few things in the world more than his wife’s cooking. It was more than just the taste of the food--Laura always seemed to know exactly what someone needed to eat to make them feel better. For Cooper it was spaghetti and meatballs, using an old tomato sauce recipe passed down from Laura’s grandmother, meatballs spiced with a blend Clint had come up with on a job in Italy fifteen years before. For Lila it was toast topped with butter and cinnamon sugar, cut into the shape of a little house, served next to eggs over easy. It had taken years of snooping to really get a handle on Natasha, but she’d figured it out in ‘03 when she caught Natasha in the kitchen at four in the morning, bags under her eyes and the smell of oil in the air, eating fried tofu dripping with sesame sauce. Laura had snuck back to bed, and spent the next morning Googling recipes.

 

Clint hadn’t bothered worrying that Laura wouldn’t know the perfect thing to make for Wanda, even only knowing her for a few hours. Sure enough, when he came home from dropping off a bag for Cooper and Lila with Mike (a visit intended to last only a few minutes that ended up taking over an hour while the kids regaled him with their adventures at the Humane Society), the house was full of the thick, salty smell of simmering soup. “Honey,” he called. “I’m home.”

 

Standing at the stove, Laura smiled at him over her shoulder. “Hey, gorgeous.”

 

Clint smiled, relaxing, as he almost always did, in the simple warmth of her presence. He toed off his boots and left them by the door, crossing into her space and kissing her cheeks, then her lips when she turned her face up to his. “What’re you making?”

 

“Mushroom barley soup. It’s not quite the season for it, but…” She shrugged. “It seemed right.”

 

“Your food intuition is usually right.” He leaned against the counter and nodded to Nate, snuggled into his sling. “Want me to take him?”

 

Laura hummed her agreement, turning away from the stove and letting him take Nate from the sling. She rolled her shoulders with a little sigh as his weight left her, and Clint settled Nate, barely startled from his nap, into the crook of his arm. “Love that sight,” Laura said, smiling.

 

Clint grinned. “Sap,” he teased. Laura laughed, stirring the soup, and Clint let himself settle into the moment, enjoying the comfort of it. “So,” he said. “Wanda.”

 

“Mm.”

 

“What do you think?”

 

“What do I _think_?” Laura raised her eyebrows, turning the heat down on the soup and putting a lid on the pot, turning to him and crossing her arms over her chest. “I think she’s a twenty-four-year-old orphan with a trauma history a mile long, with grief practically pouring out of her, and the absolute _last_ place she should be is on a battlefield. What the hell were you guys thinking?”

 

Clint blinked, surprised by the sudden fervor. “It was her choice, Laur.”

 

Laura snorted. “And? Doesn’t mean you should have let her.”

 

“First off, I didn’t _let_ her do anything. It wasn’t my place to. And second of all, we needed her.” Clint narrowed his eyes. “Laura, you’re using your angry mom voice.”

 

“I am _not_ ,” she snapped, and then seemed to catch herself. Her brow furrowed, and she took a deep breath. “Fuck,” she said. “I am.”

 

She fell silent, and Clint waited to see what she would do next, watching her calmly. Finally, she sighed. “Give me the baby, please.”

 

Without a word, Clint passed Nate over. Laura closed her eyes and held him close, tucking her face against his head, her fingers stroking gently over his neck and the back of his head as she took a few long, shaking breaths. She was trembling, and Clint cleared his throat carefully. “Hey,” he said gently. She opened her eyes and looked at him, eyes bright and shining, and Clint took a step closer to her, sliding an arm around her waist. “What’s this about?”

 

Laura leaned her head forward, resting it against his chest. “She looked so young,” she whispered. “She looked at me, Clint, and she just looked so young, and so _sad_...She’s seen so much pain already. How can Nat put her back in the field? Hasn’t she done enough?”

 

Clint swallowed, trying to tamp down a wave of defensiveness. As fierce as Laura could be when it came to the people she loved, he knew she didn’t have a truly violent bone in her body. Something like this, the need to fight back against the world...he understood it perfectly. Laura couldn’t. “It’s not about doing enough,” he said, as gently as he could. “It’s about...about not letting the world get away with being awful. Trying to fix it, however you’re suited. For people like you, it’s about building good people up. For people like me and Nat, and Wanda, I guess, it’s about taking bad people down.” He shrugged. “Even if it doesn’t make sense to anyone.”

 

Laura looked up at him, her dark eyes tired and sad. “You’ve been fighting for so long, Clint,” she said. “Aren’t you ready to stop?”

 

“It doesn’t work that way,” he began, and then sighed, shaking his head. “And anyway, we’re not talking about me.”

 

“Aren’t we?” Laura held his gaze, steady. “You’re going to try and tell me you didn’t see yourself in Pietro? That you don’t see yourself in Wanda? You’re going to tell me there wasn’t a reason you brought her back here?”

 

“I…” Clint hesitated. He’d convinced himself that he’d treated the twins like the kids they were because he was a dad, and that’s what dads--good dads--did. But then, Laura had always known him better than he knew himself. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

 

Laura’s expression softened. “She shouldn’t have to keep fighting, Clint.”

 

He laughed, soft and humorless. “It’s still her choice.”

 

“Is it a choice if she’s never had another one?” Laura challenged gently.

 

“I don’t know.” Clint turned to look out the window. He could barely make out Nat and Wanda coming in from the woods, walking side by side. “But she’s not our kid, Laura. We can give her options if you want. I sure as hell won’t throw her back to Steve when she’s still raw like this. But we have to let her choose what she wants.” He watched them approach, their steps measured and slow, calm. “She deserves that.”

 

“Yes,” Laura murmured behind him. She slipped an arm around his middle, resting her head against his back. Clint closed his eyes, trying to turn off the side of him that wanted to take every kid forced to grow up too soon under his wing and keep them safe. Nate was warm between them, the soft, almost purring sounds he made quiet and comforting. “Yes, she does.”

 

**2006**

 

Caleb Gabriel Barton comes screaming into the world on a cold night in March.

 

Laura goes into labor in the early morning, and spends the first part of the day walking around the apartment, singing softly to her belly as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening, while Clint and Natasha trail after her, exchanging panicked looks and trying to keep their shit together. Internally, Clint is running through every horrific childbirth scenario he’s made the huge mistake of reading throughout Laura’s pregnancy, and he can tell that despite the calm on Natasha’s face as she makes Laura tea and rubs Laura’s back and times her contractions on her watch, she’s doing the same, planning for every possible eventuality.

 

(Every eventuality except the one that neither of them will even consider, because there is no world in which they will accept the possibility that Laura and the baby won’t come out of this safe and sound and whole. That’s the one possibility that has woken Clint in the middle of the night for the past nine months in a cold sweat, that’s triggered more panic attacks than he’s willing to admit. Natasha doesn’t say anything about it, and neither does Laura, but he knows they know.)

 

By five, Laura’s contractions hit four minutes apart, and Clint calls them a cab. In true New York fashion, the cabbie takes one look at Laura’s belly and says, “Ah, fuck, not again. Don’t get any baby gunk on the upholstery, alright?”

 

Laura, clutching Natasha’s hand in both of hers while Clint tosses her hospital bag in the trunk, laughs her way through her next contraction and gets into the car.

 

If you’re going to have a baby in New York, Columbia’s the place to do it. Laura’s OB, a tiny Japanese woman with an easy smile and a wicked sense of humor, meets them at the door with a smile on her face. “Welcome to the exciting part, Laura,” she says cheerfully. “Having fun yet?”

 

“Surprisingly?” Laura says, one hand on her belly and the other tight around Clint’s fingers. “Kind of.”

 

Dr. Sato laughs. “Let’s get you checked in and set up on L&D. Clint, why don’t you go get yourself a cup of coffee before you meet us up on four? You look like you could use it.”

 

“I’m fine,” Clint says automatically.

 

Laura narrows her eyes. “Natasha,” she says. “Take him to get a coffee, and don’t let him into my room until he stops looking like he’s going to pass out.”

 

“I do _not_ \--” Clint protests, but Natasha is already taking his arm and dragging him off towards the hospital cafeteria. He cranes his neck back in time to see watch Laura settle into a wheelchair and wave sweetly at him before Natasha yanks him around a corner.

 

Natasha pushes him down into a plastic chair, buys two cups of coffee, and sits down across from him, pushing one of the cups towards him. On instinct, Clint drinks it. It’s not bad, for hospital coffee, which in Clint’s experience is almost always horrible. “You’ve been freaking out all day,” she says, without preamble. “Laura’s been doing fine. I’ve been checking her pulse all day, she’s perfectly safe and healthy. The baby’s going to be perfectly safe and healthy. What the fuck is going on with you?”

 

Clint doesn’t bother challenging her apparent confidence in labor and delivery outcomes. He’s never gotten anywhere with Natasha by trying to deflect things. He looks down at his paper cup of coffee and tries not to hunch his shoulders. “What if I’m a shit dad?”

 

Natasha blinks at him, surprise flickering over her features. For a moment she simply looks at him, her eyes soft and considering, and then she leans back in her chair. “Clint,” she begins, and then pauses, and holds out a hand. Clint raises his eyes but takes it, and Natasha laces their fingers together. Her skin is smooth and cool and utterly familiar, steely strength hidden in her deceptively slim fingers, and Clint can’t feel anything other than steadied by her grip. “I said almost the same thing to Laura a few months ago,” she says quietly. “That I wasn’t fit to be anyone’s mother.”

 

“Nat,” Clint says, stunned. Laura aside, he can’t think of anyone who would make a better parent than Natasha. She’s the most responsible person he knows. “That’s ridiculous. You’re gonna be a great mom.”

 

“And you’re going to be a great dad,” she counters.

 

He flinches. “Maybe my dad thought that, too.”

 

Natasha’s gaze goes cool and sharp. “You’ve said that to me before,” she says. “And I think I told you then that it was bullshit. You’d never hurt a child, Clint, your own or anyone else’s. You don’t have the stomach for it.”

 

Self-loathing drips from the words, harsh and painful, and Clint tightens his grip on her hand. He knows what she’s done in her life to survive, has heard every dark, twisted story over the years. He swallows, knowing that she won’t let him get away with making this conversation about her. “Still,” he says. “I’m a fucking disaster, Nat. I always have been. Even if I don’t hurt the kid, what if I just...what if I’m just shitty at it? What if the kid doesn’t like me?”

 

And that’s the bottom of it, he knows. It always has been. It was like that with Nat at the beginning, with Laura, too, the long-held fear that something about him was just unlovable. He’d been left behind too many times to feel anything else.

 

And Natasha knows it, too, because her expression softens. “Clint,” she says. “Clint, the baby is going to love you. It’s going to love you so much.”

 

“You don’t know that,” he mutters, sullen.

 

“I do,” she retorts. “Do you want to know how?” He looks up at her, daring her response, and finds her watching him with amused affection. “Because you love Laura,” she says simply. “And you love me. And you love this baby. You’ve loved it since it was just lines on a pregnancy test. And you’ll pour every ounce of yourself into making sure this kid grows up happy and healthy and loved, you’ll spoil it rotten but teach it to defend itself, you’d die before you’d ever let anything happen to it. You have so much love to give, Clint. Your baby will love you, Clint, and you’re going to be an amazing father.”

 

Her voice goes soft, almost tender. “I’ve never believed anything else,” she whispers, looking up at him, her eyes glistening bright at the corners. “Even when I thought I’d never get to see it.”

 

Clint swallows around the lump in his throat, remembering another night, years ago, when Natasha had told him, gently but firmly, that parenthood wasn’t something she could do, even if they found a way to make it happen. It feels so long ago, those days when they had been _Clint and Nat_ and _Clint and Laura_ , not _Clint and Nat and Laura_ , the three of them blending together like they were made to fit that way. “How did I get so fucking lucky?” he whispers.

 

“Excellent taste in women,” Natasha says, smiling around the rim of her coffee cup. She sets it down on the table, looking around the room. “You know, I met her in this hospital. After the Brooklyn explosion.”

 

Clint grins, shooting for adorably sheepish and probably ending up somewhere around self-deprecatingly endearing. “When I blew my ears out, you mean? I remember.”

 

She snorts. “You’d better.” She runs her thumb over her cup. “I never could have expected this.”

 

“I don’t think any of us did.”

 

Natasha smiles, squeezing his hand and then releasing it. “Come on,” she says. “You look better. We’d better get upstairs before the party starts without us.”

 

Clint feels anxious the entire elevator ride up to Labor and Delivery and all the way down the hallway to Laura’s room. He stands at the threshold, heart pounding, until Natasha rolls her eyes and opens the door, pushing him into the room.

 

Sitting in bed, a blood pressure cuff on her arm and a nurse pressing a stethoscope to her back, Laura looks up at them and smiles. “There you are,” she says. “I was beginning to think you might miss the show.”

 

Clint crosses the room in three strides, taking one of her hands in his and pressing his lips to the back of it. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, and Laura’s eyes crinkle at the corners.

 

“Good.” She turns her head to Natasha, who’s hovering at the doorway, and raises her eyebrows. “Where do you think you’re going?”

 

Natasha looks almost guilty. “Um,” she says. “Nowhere?”

 

Laura smiles. “Damn straight,” she says, and then clenches down hard on Clint’s hand. Clint yelps in surprise, and Laura levels a glare at him. “Do not _even_ ,” she says.

  
Clint swallows. “Yes, dear,” he says, meek.

 

Dr. Sato slips into the room, checking a reading from one of the various monitors Laura’s hooked to and then, after getting Laura’s permission, slipping a hand under the hem of Laura’s hospital gown. “Time to get this party started,” she says brightly. She looks up at Laura, taking in the way Clint and Natasha are bracketing her on either side, each of them holding one of her hands, and cocks one eyebrow. “You ready?”

 

Laura looks back and forth between them, and Clint does his best to look calm and confident and like he’s got his shit under control. Laura laughs softly like she doesn’t buy it for a moment, leaning up to kiss his chin and then looking back at Dr. Sato, smiling with excited determination. “I’m perfect,” she says. “I have everything I need.”

 

The next half hour is a blur of a bone-crushing grip on his hand and gasping and encouragement and really more fluids than Clint thought this was going to involve, and it is absolutely, brilliantly, amazingly worth it. Their baby boy comes out screaming and wriggling and quiets instantly when he’s placed on Laura’s breast, and then it’s Laura’s turn to burst into exhausted, happy tears. Clint knows he’s crying too and can’t even make himself care, and when he looks up at Natasha her face is as wet as his feels, her face so full of love it makes Clint’s heart ache.

 

A nurse takes the baby away to bathe and weigh him and Clint has to fight down a fierce, protective instinct to follow them. She’s not gone long, though, and she deposits the baby gently into his arms, clean and swaddles and wearing the tiniest little blue hat Clint has ever seen. “He’s a love,” she says, smiling as she gently adjusts Clint’s grip on him. “Do you have a name for him?”

 

“He’s named for Laura’s granddad,” Clint says absently, gaze fixed raptly on his son’s tiny face. “And a nurse in France who got me and Nat out of a tight scrape. Not supposed to tell people his name til his naming, though. Tradition and all.”

 

The nurse smiles, touching his arm. “Congratulations,” she says. She looks past him to the bed, where Laura is fast asleep, an exhausted, satisfied smile on her face. Natasha is curled on the bed beside her, Laura’s head pillowed on her arm, gently stroking Laura’s sweat-dampened hair. “To all of you,” she adds. Clint snaps his head up, surprised, but the nurse just laughs and pats him on the arm again, leaving him the bassinet and heading out of the room, likely to check on her next patient.

 

Shaking his head, Clint settles down in the rocking chair in the corner of the room, looking down at his son and trying to memorize every aspect of his face. He knows people like to talk about who newborns look like, but he thinks the baby looks like a brand-new person. A new person that Laura _grew_ , how crazy was that? He laughs softly, amazed, and the baby stirs slightly in his arms. “Hey,” Clint whispers. “Hey, baby. It’s okay.”

 

The baby doesn’t open his eyes but he makes some noises, soft and cooing. Clint laughs again. “You sound like a little bird,” he says, rocking carefully in the chair. He feels like he’s going to be careful every day for the rest of his life. Nothing is ever going to hurt this kid as long as he lives. “Like a little baby hawk,” he continues, stroking one finger over his son’s cheek. “What do you think? Are you gonna grow up to be a hawk like your dad? What kind of bird do you think you’ll be?”

 

In the bed, he sees Natasha crack one eye open, looking at him in affectionate amusement. He flashes her a smile, then looks back at the baby. “You could be anything,” he says, keeping his voice quiet and gentle. “What do you think? A Swainson’s Hawk? A Harris’s? Or maybe a Cooper’s--”

 

He breaks off when the baby opens his mouth in a wide yawn, dark blue eyes blinking open, long lashes fluttering against Clint’s thumb. Clint looks down at him, and falls head over heels in love. “Cooper it is,” he says, his heart swelling and a lump rising in his throat. His eyes blur, and he smiles at his son. “Hi, Cooper,” he whispers, tears prickling at his eyes. “I’m Dad.”

 

**2015**

 

Summer really wasn’t the season for mushroom barley soup and Laura prided herself on cooking to seasons, but the way Wanda closed her eyes and sighed happily at the first spoonful made her put aside some scruples. “Good?” Laura asked, just to make sure.

 

Wanda looked up at her and smiled, a real, genuine smile that went all the way up to her tired blue eyes. “It’s wonderful,” she said. “Thank you.”

 

Across the table, Clint grinned at her. “Laura’s got a gift for food,” he said. “She always knows what people need.”

 

Wanda cocked her head to one side. “That’s an interesting gift.”

 

“It’s not a gift,” Laura said, slicing a loaf of bread and passing Wanda a piece, then handing the board to Natasha. “It’s just...intuition, I suppose.”

 

“Intuition is a good thing.” Wanda smiled. “So is cooking. Pietro and I were always awful at it. Our grandmother tried to teach us, but she was a traditionalist. Only a few recipes. After she died, we lived mostly on take-away.”

 

Laura smiled. “I’m happy to teach you a few things while you’re here,” she said. “It’s a useful skill. You can’t survive on SHIELD mess hall food forever.”

 

“Hey,” Clint said, defensive. “It’s not _that_ bad.”

 

“Every time you came home from being on base for a long time you camped out in the kitchen for nearly a week,” Laura reminded him.

 

Natasha snorted into her soup. “Traitor,” Clint told her.

 

She shrugged. “She’s not wrong,” she said. “It’s filling, but not particularly delicious.”

 

“I’m telling Doris you said that.”

 

“Doris was Hydra,” Natasha deadpans. There was a dull _thump_ and Natasha winced. “Ouch.”

 

“Well, don’t even joke. Doris would never.” Clint looked at Wanda, who was watching them with curious confusion. “Doris worked in the SHIELD mess at the Triskelion,” he explained. “Her desserts were legendary. _Legendary_.”

 

Laura arched one eyebrow. “Legendary?”

 

“And absolutely nothing compared to yours,” he said, clearly attempting to be smooth while looking like a deer in the headlights.

 

Laura grinned at him. Beside her, Wanda gave a small laugh. “You two are...very married.”

 

Clint looked up from smearing salted butter on his bread. “What were you expecting?”

 

Wanda shrugged. “I’m not sure.” She stirred her soup thoughtfully. “I think I never expected a life like you have to be...compatible with something like this.” She looked at Clint. “I’ve seen you fight,” she said. “You’re very deadly. It’s been strange to see you...like this. Gentle.”

 

“I can be gentle,” Clint said.

 

“You should see him in the mornings,” Natasha said, a sly grin curving her lips. “He’s much less deadly when he’s crashing into things.”

 

“I stop crashing into things once I’ve had a coffee,” Clint said. “Or two,” he amended when Laura raised her eyebrows at him.

 

Laura smiled, squeezing his arm fondly and looking at Wanda. “You’re right in some ways,” she said. “An Avenger’s life isn’t really compatible with being a spouse and a parent.” She chose her words carefully, but was careful not to look at Natasha. If Natasha wasn’t ready for Wanda to know what they’d been to each other--what it sometimes seemed like they still were to each other--then she could respect that. “But where you’ve got it wrong is in thinking that Clint’s an Avenger first.”

 

“Laura’s right,” Clint said. He smiled at Laura, his eyes soft. “My family’s always come first. All the Avenging happens with Laura’s permission. She pulls that, and I’m done.”

 

Wanda looked back and forth between them, brow furrowing in confusion. “I thought you were done?”

 

Clint glanced at Laura. Laura inclined her head, and Clint swallowed his bite of soup. “Nothing’s official,” he said carefully, his eyes fixed on Laura’s. Everything in his expression said that he was giving her the space to contradict him, and she smiled, grateful for that. “Cap’s made it clear the door’s open, and I’ve let him know that I’ll come back if he needs me. In the meantime, I’m doing the dad thing. That’s more than enough for me for now.”

 

“Are we so much of a handful?” Laura teased.

 

“You’re the least of it,” he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling. His laugh lines were deep and spoke to years of smiling at her, and Laura squeezed his arm once more before releasing it.

 

“For my part, I love having him home. Until he starts breaking the house apart on one of his ‘renovation’ projects.” She winked. “That’s when I call Natasha in.”

 

“Oh, no,” Natasha said, narrowing her eyes and leveling her spoon at Laura. “He breaks out the toolbox, and I’m gone.”

 

Laura nearly choked on her soup. “Ex _cuse_ me?” she sputtered. “Which of you was the one who nearly knocked down a load-bearing wall in the sunroom?”

 

Natasha, to her credit, has the grace to blush. “Fair. That was on me.”

 

Wanda looked at her. “How much time do you spend here?”

 

For a moment, Natasha didn’t answer, just looked thoughtfully between Clint and Laura. “Too much,” she said softly, her expression unreadable. “And not enough.”

 

Wanda didn’t seem to know what to say to that. Fortunately, Clint changed the subject, segueing with surprising smoothness into asking Wanda about the different members of the Avengers and what she thought of them, and Wanda seemed more than willing to answer, though Laura caught her glancing between the three of them more than once throughout the rest of the meal.

 

After dinner, Natasha cleaned up the kitchen while Clint talked Wanda into watching _Howl’s Moving Castle_ \--“No, really, you’re going to like it, I swear”--on the couch. Laura settled down in her corner of the sofa, Nate in her arms, foregoing the sling while he ate his own dinner. By the time Natasha came in with a bowl of popcorn, the movie was well under way, Wanda’s eyes fixed raptly on the screen.

 

“What did I miss?” Natasha asked, sitting down next to Laura, careful not to jostle her.

 

Laura shot her an appreciative look, reaching for a handful of popcorn. “Just the opening,” she said. “Clint was having trouble with the hard drive.”

 

“There are too many damn remotes,” Clint muttered from his place on the floor, sprawled comfortably with his back resting against Laura’s legs. In the other corner of the couch, not quite relaxed but seemingly comfortable, Wanda giggled softly. It was a nice sound, and Laura smiled to hear it.

 

Nate ate contentedly and slept his way through the movie, and Laura dozed off herself halfway through. She woke briefly when Natasha carefully extricated Nate from her arms and then fell asleep again, warm and comfortable under her afghan.

 

When she next woke, the movie was over, and Natasha was standing over her, shaking her shoulder gently. Nate was asleep in her arms, and she was smiling softly. “Hi, sleepyhead,” she said quietly. “Time to go up to bed. I wouldn’t have woken you, but I think Clint’s going to have his hands full.”

 

“Mm,” Laura said groggily. “What?” She picked her head off the couch cushions, squinting in the dim light to the other end of the couch.

 

Wanda, it seemed, had also fallen asleep, and had gone from sitting primly in the corner to curling up in a ball, her head pillowed on her arms and her dark hair falling across her face. Clint was crouched next to her, carefully moving her hair so that it didn’t get caught as he gathered her, blanket and all, into his arms. He got to his feet, wincing slightly as his knee popped, and turned to head up the stairs. “Not a word,” he warned Natasha, who grinned at him.

 

“Wasn’t going to say a thing, old man.”

 

“You’re one to talk about age,” he grumbled, but turned and made his way towards the stairs, carrying Wanda as easily as if she weighed no more than Lila. Wrapping herself in her afghan, Laura trailed sleepily after him, Natasha bringing up the rear with Nate.

 

With the ease brought through long years of practice, Clint hip-checked the door to Wanda’s room open, settling her into her bed. Laura leaned against the door frame, watching him, taking in the careful tenderness with which he went about tucking her in.

 

She felt Natasha’s warm presence at her back a moment later. “Looks like you’ve got another one,” Natasha murmured, resting her chin on Laura’s shoulder. “Little older than the rest, but he’s good with her.”

 

Laura smiled, leaning her head against the side of Natasha’s as Clint straightened, then leaned down, brushed Wanda’s hair back, and lightly brushed his lips over her forehead. “Of course he is,” she said, watching him. She couldn’t make out Clint’s expression in the dark room, but she knew what it looked like: identical to the way he looked at Cooper or Lila or Nate--unmistakably paternal, protective and tender and soft. “I always knew he would be.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: pregnancy and childbirth (nothing graphic), pregnancy-induced vomiting, reference to canon-compliant reproductive violence, blink-and-you'll-miss-it explicit sexual content
> 
> Thanks as always for [debz0rz](http://debz0rz.tumblr.com) for her proofreading skills and [nathanielbarton](http://nathanielbarton.tumblr.com) for the amazing graphics that basically inspire me to keep writing so that she'll keep making them. Also thanks to [enigma731](http://enigma731.tumblr.com) for her constant encouragement (and listening to me whine), [isjustprogress](http://isjustprogress.tumblr.com) for getting me through the grumpiness of writing the last few scenes of this chapter and commiserating about life with an OT3, and everyone who gave me feedback and translation help with the previous chapters. Extra thanks to everyone who continues to leave comments despite the long gaps between updates--they really keep me fueled and energized, whether they're a few words or a few paragraphs. You're all the best!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end of chapter for notes and warnings.

**2015**

 

Long after the rest of the house had gone to sleep, Natasha found herself awake.

 

Lying on her back in the guest bed, watching clouds move across the starlit sky through the gap in the curtains, she mentally kicked herself for letting this happen. The reason, she reminded herself for what seemed like the thousandth time, that she didn’t let herself get pulled back into Clint and Laura’s bed was because every damn time she ended up alone she found herself agitated, restless, and annoyed. She sighed, stretching her arms up over her head.

 

She wasn’t sure how to make this Clint’s fault, but she was sure as hell going to blame him for it.

 

From down the hallway, she heard Nate whimper and cry, and then the creaking of floorboards, Clint’s hushing voice. Natasha closed her eyes, tamping down the instinct that had come up over the last few nights, the one that made her want to tell Clint to go back to bed, that she’d handle Nate for this round. _Not your kid, Natasha_ , she reminded herself, digging her nails into her palms until the skin started to smart. _Let him parent_.

 

This _one’s not yours_ , a little voice in the back of her head needled at her, playful and cruel. _But he could have been_.

 

Natasha scowled at the ceiling, forcing those thoughts away. Of the three Barton children she had only ever played mother to Cooper, back in those sweet, simple days when she had let herself believe that the dream they’d created for themselves could last forever. She’d woken in the small hours of the night with him, had walked the hallway of their New York apartment with him, and then the creaky floorboards of the farmhouse months later when he’d been colicky and furious with them.

 

Back in those days, she’d tilted exhausted eyes toward the ceiling and thought longingly of a time when those screaming baby days would be over. She never thought that when that time came, she’d be on the outside looking in, only able to dream of being back in those gorgeous newborn moments.

 

She closed her eyes, rolling onto her side and looking at the empty pillow beside her, pushing away thoughts of Cooper’s baby days and drifting instead to the last time she’d spent a full night in this bed. The other pillow hadn’t been empty then--it had been Bruce in that spot, wan and pale and hollow-eyed, sleeping off the trauma of Wanda’s mind-bending and the horror of what he’d woken up to see. She had curled beside him, close enough to touch but not daring to, feeling sick to her stomach and longing to cross the hall to where Clint and Laura slept.

 

Idly, she wondered where Bruce was now. She twisted behind her to pick up her phone from the bedside table, thumbing through her text messages until she reached the last chain of messages between her and Bruce. She’d sent the occasional message in the weeks since Sokovia--hourly, in the first days, then daily, and then, finally, a simple question, now and again. It was moot, she knew--Tony had Bruce’s phone; had pulled it out of the tattered jacket Bruce had shed in Sokovia when Natasha had pushed him into transforming.

 

She’d sent the messages anyway.

 

It had helped, at first. She’d apologized, more than once. When the apologies had started to feel hollow, she’d taken just to giving updates about the team. She’d texted when Nathaniel had been born, his length and weight and an attached image of ten tiny toes that Clint had sent to her. She’d typed out an entire message once, pouring out the story of her and Clint and Laura, but she’d deleted it before she sent it. It wasn’t like Bruce was there to read it anyway.

 

Footsteps sounded past her door and she heard Clint’s soft humming and Nathaniel’s breathy whimpers. For a moment, Natasha tensed, wondering if he’d come in, but the footsteps passed her, and a few seconds later she heard him descend the stairs. She relaxed, turning off the backlight on her phone and letting it fall to the coverlet with a soft _thump_. She didn’t have it in her to reread Bruce’s old texts tonight.

 

Even those few moments of blue light had jolted her brain, though, and she felt even more awake now, jittery under her skin. She swore under her breath and twisted more tightly under the blankets, closing her eyes and breathing deeply, counting up to a hundred in English and back down in Russian, up in Spanish and down in French, up in Portuguese and down in Mandarin.

 

She went through twelve languages before giving up and rolling out of bed, pulling on the oversized hoodie--Clint’s, she thought, or maybe Laura’s, she wasn’t sure who had bought it first, but she was fairly sure it wasn’t hers--she had abandoned at the end of the bed and sliding her feet into the first pair of socks she fumbled out of her bag. Zipping the sweatshirt and tugging the hood up over her hair, she tiptoed out of the room and crept down the stairs, making for the kitchen. On autopilot, she plucked the kettle from the stove and moved to the sink to fill it.

 

“Hey, put enough in there for me, will you?”

 

Natasha tamped down on the decades of ingrained reflexes that instructed her to throw the nearest sharp object in the direction of the unexpected voice. Breathing out slowly through her nose to diffuse the sudden adrenaline that had surged through her veins, she turned off the tap and turned around to face Clint, who had just walked into the kitchen from the living room. “What the _fuck_ , Barton,” she hissed. “I could have killed you.” She glanced down, realizing that the tiny bundle currently being bounced in Clint’s arms was Nate, and felt cold ice spread through her veins. “ _Both_ of you.”

 

Clint gave a weary snort. “Please,” he said. “Like I’d let you hurt my kid.”

 

The easy possessiveness in his voice, almost definitely unintentional, made her want to flinch. She resisted the urge and turned back to the sink, filling the kettle and putting it on the stove. It took more self-control than she was strictly willing to admit not to slam it down. “Still,” she said. “Shouldn’t you know enough not to sneak up on me?”

 

He was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t think that was an an issue for us anymore,” he said finally.

 

She felt her shoulders stiffen, and forced herself to relax. “It’s not,” she said, facing him again. He was standing by the table, swaying slightly as he rocked a still-fussing Nate in his arms, and she couldn’t read the expression on his face. “Is he okay?”

 

Clint nodded. “Just fussy tonight,” he said, shrugging. He dipped his head down, his voice going soft and soothing as he pressed a kiss to Nate’s forehead. “Aren’t you, my love?” Nate made a grumbling noise, and Clint sighed, resuming his bouncing walk around the table. “He’s been like this all night,” he said tiredly.

 

Natasha frowned, her irritation with Clint giving way to concern. “Is everything okay with him?”

 

He gave an absent nod, his attention focused mostly on the baby. “Happens from time to time. He can probably tell when there’s tension in the house.”

 

“Is there?”

 

Clint glanced at her. He didn’t stop moving, but he raised one eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “You tell me,” he said.

 

She bristled. “I’m not tense, Clint.”

 

“You just pointed out that you could have killed me and the baby for walking into a room you were in,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t bullshit me, Nat. What’s going on with you?”

 

Natasha opened her mouth to snap back at him, then caught herself. “It’s not…” She closed her eyes, rubbing them with the heels of her palms. “I couldn’t sleep.”

 

Clint’s lips parted, a furrow appearing in his brow. “Bad thoughts?”

 

She shrugged. “Nothing worse than usual.”

 

“Usual’s pretty bad on it’s own,” he pointed out. Natasha looked at him, impassive, and he sighed. “Fine,” he said tiredly. “I’m not arguing with you tonight, Nat. You want to suffer in silence, that’s your deal.”

 

He adjusted his grip on Nate and turned away, heading back towards the study and making soft hushing noises to the baby as he went. Natasha watched him go, mentally kicking herself for being short with him. As easy as it was to blame Clint for...well, anything; his natural self-deprecation meant he was generally willing to take the blame for things that weren’t even his fault, it wasn’t actually fair to pin her bad mood on him, especially when it was her own issues keeping her up tonight, and he was just trying to be a friend.

 

Well. Maybe not _just_ a friend, but that was Clint. He was whatever she needed him to be. She felt her lips twitch into a reluctant smile. When, she wondered, had Clint become the mature person in this relationship?

 

The kettle started to hiss on the stove, and she plucked it free of the burner before it could start to whistle and wake up the whole house. She set it on a back burner and rummaged around on the open shelves until she found Laura’s grandmother’s teapot, filling the strainer with a few scoops of lavender chamomile tea from the tin and then filling the pot from the kettle. She took a few minutes to let it steep, breathing in the steam and letting the hot dampness soothe some of the tension from her skin, before pouring two mugs and stirring a spoonful of honey into each one. Wrapping the teapot in a towel to keep it warm--apparently Laura drew the line at keeping tea cozies in the house--she picked up the mugs and carried them through to the study.

 

Clint was leaning back in his desk chair, singing softly to Nate as he rocked the chair back and forth on its springs. Natasha couldn’t quite make out the words to the lullaby and suspected that Clint wasn’t bothering much with diction. The tune alone was relaxing, Clint’s rich voice gentled to softness in the low lamplight. He didn’t seem to notice her when she entered, and she tapped gently on the door frame with the rim of one of the mugs. His eyes snapped to her, and then he relaxed. Not pausing his singing, he tilted his head to one side, a wordless question. She lifted the mug in a peace offering, and the tension around his eyes softened, a soft smile touching his lips as he inclined his head towards the other chair in the room.

 

Natasha took the invitation for what it was, setting one mug down on the desk in front of Clint’s and pulling the chair from Laura’s desk closer to him, sitting down with the other mug. Carefully, she tugged the woven blanket from the back of her chair, pulling her feet up onto the seat and draping the blanket over her knees, wrapping her hands around the mug. It was cool for a summer night, and she was grateful for the hot tea and warm blanket.

 

Sipping her tea, she settled back into the chair, focusing her gaze on Clint. His grip on Nate was comfortable and easy, and she found herself remembering Cooper’s early days again with wistful amusement. She and Clint had been so nervous then, constantly terrified that they’d do something wrong. Only Laura had really seemed to know what she was doing, and even she had reminded them, more than once and with a touch of annoyance from time to time, that she was as new to parenting as either of them. Contrasting the Clint of--God, was it really almost ten years ago?--with this Clint, relaxed and confident in his role, was fascinating to her. It was like looking at two different people, almost, but they were both Clint. She knew, better than anyone but Laura, that the confidence she saw now was hard-won and had nearly been lost for good when Loki twisted Clint’s mind away from him, and Natasha had fought tooth and nail to make sure it hadn’t disappeared entirely.

 

Having her mind taken from her was what had shattered Natasha’s faith in the life she had built herself. She would have died before letting it do the same to Clint.

 

The lullaby came to an end, Clint’s voice fading to silence. In the new quiet, Natasha found herself holding her breath, listening for Nate.

 

A moment passed, then another.

 

After two full minutes of silence, Clint relaxed back into his seat with a soft sigh. “Thank fucking god,” he mumbled under his breath, barely audible. Natasha bit back a laugh. Clint glanced her way anyway, a small smile quirking his lips as he picked up the mug of tea she’d brought him. He took a long sip, more of the weary tension leaving his shoulders, and the looked at her properly, his expression soft. “Hey,” he said quietly.

 

Natasha offered him a small smile in return. “Hey,” she said. She ran her thumb over her mug. “Sorry.”

 

She didn’t elaborate, but then, this was Clint. She didn’t really need to. “‘Sokay,” he said. “You wanna tell me about it?”

 

“No. It’s just...just a mood.” She ran a hand through her hair. “You might be right. About the tension. Having the kids gone and Wanda here, it’s just...it feels different.”

 

Clint nodded, sipping his tea quietly. “Kids’ll be back tomorrow,” he said. “And Wanda, well...She seems to be settling in okay.”

 

More than okay, Natasha thought. Seeing Wanda fall asleep during the movie had taken her by surprise. She hadn’t expected her to relax like that, not around strangers. But this house had a way of doing that to people, of folding them into an embrace and letting a mantle of comfort settle around them. It was that warmth that had let her sleep here after what had happened in South Africa, that had let even Bruce, wired and on edge, drift off into an exhausted sleep. She tucked a few strands of hair behind her ears. “She is,” she allowed. “Better than I expected. She’ll be okay to go back in a few days, probably.”

 

“Let her take her time,” Clint said, reaching down to adjust Nate’s swaddled blankets slightly. “World’s not ending any time soon.” He paused, glancing up at her. “Unless there’s another reason you want her to leave?”

 

Natasha tensed. “What do you mean?”

 

Clint shifted in his seat, putting his mug on the desk. “You went back to the guest room,” he said. His tone was gentle, not challenging, just commenting. Still, Natasha had been listening to Clint’s voice for years--she knew what to listen for, and she could hear the faint hurt bristling under his words. She sighed, looking down into her tea.

 

“I did. I couldn’t…” Natasha twisted the fingers of one hand into the hem of her sweatshirt, trying to find the right words to say what she wanted without hurting Clint more, without making it seem like she was ashamed. “What we had, what we still...have, sometimes, it’s just...I don’t want to share it.” She looked up at him, hesitant. “Clint, it’s enough that I don’t know what we are to each other half the time. To explain it to someone else, when she still thinks I’m still trying to get over Bruce?” She shook her head. “I can’t.”

 

His expression didn’t waver, but something she couldn’t quite place flickered in his eyes. “Are you not still trying to get over Bruce?”

 

“I’m...I don’t know. It’s complicated.” She pulled the blanket more tightly around her. “I can’t get closure,” she admitted after a few moments of silence. “It would be one thing if I could just talk to him, apologize, let him know that...I don’t know what, exactly. But he’s just...in the wind.” She shrugged, feeling antsy and insecure. “Maybe it’s for the best.”

 

“For you to be sitting in limbo? I don’t think so.” Clint picked up his mug again, drinking thoughtfully. He looked tired, Natasha thought, eyeing the circles under his eyes. She wondered how he slept the two nights he was gone, while she was here, curled around Laura in his bed. He drained the mug and set it down, then scrubbed a hand over his face. “Look, Nat,” he said gently. “What you want to tell Wanda is up to you. If you don’t want her to know about us and our...history, that’s fine. But you can’t just not sleep, either. As much as I’d prefer you with me and Laura, if you get used to sleeping with us and then can’t sleep on your own...maybe it is better that you stick to your own room.”

 

She could hear the audible reluctance in his voice, and it softened the prickle of rejection that she felt at his words. “Clint,” she said, hesitant.

 

He looked at her, his gaze steady. “I mean it, Nat. Because I can’t…” He broke off, and his shoulders relaxed incrementally, the way they always did when he noticed tension he hadn’t realized was there and intentionally pushed it away. Natasha tamped down on the twitch of her lips. Clint took a breath, released it slowly. “We’re in limbo too,” he said. “Me and Laura. And we can’t--you can’t look at me like the way you’re looking at me now.”

 

Natasha blinked, taken aback. “Like what?”

 

“Like you’re waiting for me to tell you what to do,” he said simply. “Like you want me to give you some kind of direction. To make the choice for you.” He got to his feet, a smooth motion, not jostling Nate at all. “I love you, Nat, but you can’t put that on me. You know we want you here, as often as you’re willing to come, in whatever way you’re willing to be here. But you need to choose it for yourself.” He curled a hand over the back of her head, his fingers just barely pressing into her hair, and she closed her eyes as he bent and brushed a kiss over her forehead. “Our door’s always open, Nat,” he said softly. “But you have to walk in.”

 

He released her and straightened, his smile soft and sad as he moved away from her, picking up his empty mug. “Thanks for the tea,” he said, raising it slightly. “Don’t stay up too late.”

 

“Right,” Natasha said. She could feel a faint tingling where his lips had touched her skin, and wanted to reach up, to press her fingers there and hold onto the sensation.

 

Clint gazed at her a moment more, his expression gentle. “Goodnight,” he said softly.

 

“Goodnight,” she echoed, her voice a whisper, but he was already gone, disappearing back into the darkened kitchen. Natasha closed her eyes and tilted her head back, holding her cooling mug and waiting for the prickling in her eyes to fade.

 

The door might be open, she thought. But walking through was the hardest part.

 

**2006**

 

Three months after Cooper’s birth, they pack up and move into Laura’s grandmother’s old farmhouse.

 

It hadn’t taken Laura long to convince them to leave New York. Clint is a watcher by nature, and he’d seen her getting more and more agitated with the hustle and bustle of the city over the past year. He’d mentioned it to Natasha, had seen her start to watch Laura more closely herself, and when Laura, six months pregnant, had mentioned nervously that her grandmother had offered them her house, they hadn’t made her work for it. Both he and Natasha keep their apartments, Natasha’s in Manhattan and Clint’s in Bed-Stuy, arguing that they need to have safehouses in case coming straight home after a job isn’t an option. Clint can tell Laura doesn’t love the idea, but she understands. She gets on board more fully when Clint makes it clear that it’s for her and Cooper’s safety--the last thing he or Nat wants is to bring someone or something back to the family that might put them in harm’s way.

 

Clint has spent more time in the farmhouse since that first time at Laura’s grandfather’s funeral. He doesn’t love that the house is in Iowa--he’d thought he’d finally gotten clear of the whole state--but beyond that, he can’t find much fault in it. The house itself is a beauty, solid old architecture with high ceilings and the kind of original hardwood flooring that would make a Manhattan real estate agent weep, and Clint has spent many a Walker family gathering just wandering from room to room, taking in the details of the place, from the architectural design to the handmade blankets draped over beds and sofas.

 

Nat has been to the farmhouse only once before the day they move in, but the moment she crosses the threshold for the first time, she loves it. Clint knows that Natasha feels safe loving places far more than she does loving people, and the look on her face as she steps inside when they fly out to measure the rooms to figure out what, if any, of their New York furniture they want to bring out with them is priceless. She follows the same path of wandering that Clint has on so many other days, brushing her fingers over the handmade afghans, the collected trinkets, mementos of three generations of Laura’s family. “And her grandmother is just leaving all of this?” she asks Clint.

 

He glances up at her, pausing to scribble down the length of the living room wall. “A lot of it,” he says. “She’s going to a senior community about twenty minutes from here. I guess she’s taking some of it, but most of it she wants to stay with the house.” He lets the tape measure snap closed and sits back on his heels. “I’m trying to make it not feel weird.”

 

She perches on the coffee table, raising her eyebrows at him. “What’s weird about it?”

 

“I don’t know. It’s hard to get it into words.” He rubs a hand over the back of his head. “It just kind of seems a little...I don’t know. Like moving into someone else’s house.”

 

“Mm.” Natasha tilts her head to one side. “But it’s Laura’s,” she says. “Doesn’t that make it okay?”

 

Clint grins. “Of course it does,” he says. “Why else do you think we’re moving back to fucking Iowa?”

 

The move goes smoothly, or as smoothly as any cross-country move can. Laura takes the baby to her parents’ place outside of Chicago, giving Clint and Natasha firm instructions to do whatever they needed to the house to make it feel like home for them. “I mean, I’d prefer that you not burn it down,” she teases, holding Cooper in one arm and curling a lock of Natasha’s hair around her finger with her other hand. “But I’ll be comfortable in this house no matter what. You two need to spend some time there, and make it yours.”

 

She smiles, kisses them both, and gets in the cab that’s taking her out to JFK.

 

They pack up the U-HAUL and start the sixteen-hour drive. Natasha navigates them out of New York because Clint flatly refuses to drive in rush-hour traffic in the city, and they switch out at a rest stop as soon as they hit New Jersey. From there it’s fifteen and a half hours on I-80, and Clint proceeds to begin his favorite road trip game of driving Natasha absolutely insane until she threatens to shoot him or go to sleep or both.

 

It’s dark and late when they finally pull up at the house. Clint pokes Natasha awake and grins when she looks up at him. “Home sweet home, Nat,” he says, half-teasing, half-gentle. “Ready to start unpacking?”

 

She blinks at him, bleary-eyed. “You must be joking.”

 

He laughs. “Course I am,” he says. “Come on.” He hops down from the truck and walks around to her side of the car as she gets down, reaching back for the duffle bags they’d packed with their overnight essentials. He threads his fingers through hers and leads her up to the porch steps.

 

“I am,” she says, but pauses at the front door all the same. Clint stops next to her, exhausted but patient. She looks up at him, her expression barely visible in the darkness. “Are we really doing this?”

 

Clint adjusts the strap of his duffle bag on his shoulder, trying to subtly get out the cricks out of his back. “Standing on a porch after a sixteen-hour drive when we could be asleep? Apparently.”

 

She punches his shoulder. Not hard, but it gets her point across. “No,” she says. “Moving to the middle of nowhere. Becoming _farmers_.”

 

He snorts. “We’re not becoming farmers, Nat,” he says. “Laura’s brother Mike wants to run the farm, he just doesn’t want the house. We’re just living here. Giving Coop the chance to grow up and be able to go outside, run around, breathe air that’s not full of smog.”

 

“Still.” Natasha looks around, taking in the farmland around them. “It’s not really...us, is it?”

 

Clint pauses, trying to hear what she’s not saying. It could be anything, knowing Natasha, but he focuses in, trusting his eyes to see the tiny changes in her face, even in the Iowa darkness--so much darker than New York, even so late at night. But the moon, God, he’d forgotten how bright the moon could be when it didn’t have to fight its way through light pollution. Natasha is a creature used to luxury, and he knows she feels her most comfortable surrounded by chrome and stainless steel, with easy access to the occasional gala.

 

But in the past few years, he’s seen her shed some of those layers. He’s seen the same easy smile spread across her face when she’s barefoot and lounging on their living room couch as when she’s sweeping through a ballroom on four-inch heels, has watched her relax into a candlelit bubble bath with Laura with the same pleased purr as when she’s eating five-star cuisine at the sort of restaurant that makes Clint’s skin itch. The Natasha of today is different than the Natasha of five years ago; this Natasha is content in simplicity and quiet, so much more so than she ever was before.

 

“I think it is,” he says. “Maybe not the us we used to be, but the us now? I think this is exactly where we belong.” He reaches out, tucks a few disheveled strands of hair behind her ear. “Think about it. Think about waking up out here, watching the sun come up over those hills. Think about how quiet it is, without all the craziness of the city. Think about Cooper growing up out here, running around, not having to worry about the subway or muggers or whatever other crazy shit we would have freaked out about back in New York. Think about how much safer Laura’ll be out here, how much harder she’ll be for someone to find.”

 

That gets a twitch of Natasha’s lips. “She will be safer,” she says. She runs the fingers of one hand over the worn wood of the doorframe, and then looks at him. “I’m not milking cows,” she says firmly.

 

Clint laughs. “You won’t have to,” he promises. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the keys, unlocks the door. Then, on a whim, he scoops Natasha into his arms and carries her across the threshold. “There you go,” he says, standing inside the door and kissing her cheek. “Now it’s done right.”

 

“Dork,” she says fondly, and kisses him.

 

**2015**

 

Clint woke early to the sunshine streaming through the window, his body curled tight around Laura’s. He regretted consciousness almost instantly, his joints and eyes protesting too-little sleep and too much light, and he wrapped his arms more tightly around Laura, pressing his face into the crook of her neck and snuffling miserably.

 

Laura groaned softly. “Clint?” She brought one hand up, reaching back to scritch at the back of his neck. “Are you okay?”

 

“Don’t wanna be awake,” he mumbled into her skin.

 

She laughed, her fingers gentle as they ran through the short hair at the nape of his neck. “I’m sorry, love.” She lifted her head, looking in the direction of Nate’s crib. “The baby’s still asleep?”

 

“Mmph,” he confirmed, not opening his eyes. “Finally. Let him stay that way a little while longer.” Nate had fussed all night, waking twice more after Clint, exhausted, had brought him up to bed after his talk with Natasha, and Clint had taken him both times in an attempt to let Laura catch some sleep once she’d fed him, walking the length of the upstairs hallway. He hadn’t had the energy--or the heart, really--to go back downstairs. “What time’re the kids supposed to come back?”

 

“Early,” Laura said. “Mike’s dropping them off when he comes to check on the fields.” She turned in his arms, her nose just inches from his. This close, he could see the sleep clinging to her eyelashes, the crinkle of crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. She was, he thought, the most beautiful woman in the world. Her soft morning smile faded slightly as she looked at him. “You look worried,” she said, laying her hand against his cheek. “What is it?”

 

Clint thought about not telling her everything, but he’d never gotten anywhere in life by lying to either of the women who could read him like a book. “It’s Nat,” he admitted, and relayed last night’s conversation. Laura listened without reacting, her expression calm and steady, her fingers gentle as they stroked a soft line from his temple to his jaw. “I’m not sure if I should feel guilty,” he said when he came to the end of it, trying not to picture the pained, hesitant expression on Natasha’s face when he’d left her in the study. “I mean--god, Laura, all I wanted to do was ask her to come up, but I just…” He shook his head. “I wanted her to choose it for herself.”

 

Laura’s eyes softened. “You did the right thing,” she said. “I know it sucks, Clint, but she needed to make her own choice. That’s what all of this has been about.”

 

He sighed. “It _really_ sucks,” he said, just to complain, and she chuckled, leaning forward and kissing his nose.

 

“I know, honey.” She moved away to stretch, arching her back, and he let himself watch shamelessly as her breasts moved under the loose tank top she wore, one nipple peeking out of the fabric. Laura caught him, and grinned. “Not on your life, Barton,” she teased. “Those are the baby’s, at least for now.”

 

Clint sighed again, this one mostly feigned. “This kid’s a pain in the ass,” he said, not meaning it. “Taking my sleep, taking my boobs…”

 

“I’m sorry, _whose_ boobs?” But Laura was laughing, and she let him tug her back into his arms, kissing her slowly and deeply. She relaxed into his kiss and he closed his eyes, letting himself re-learn the shape of her mouth, the taste of her. Her teeth weren’t brushed and the kiss was lazy and deep, and it was perfect.

 

Before things could get properly heated, Laura leaned away from him, pressing a few shorter, chaster kisses to his lips. “I don’t think I’m quite there yet,” she said, almost apologetic.

 

Clint’s libido mourned, but he shook his head, kissing her back. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I know you’ve got healing to do.” He cracked a grin, waggling his eyebrows. “Doesn’t mean I can’t kiss the hell out of you, though, right?”

 

Laura laughed. “Kissing,” she said, moving into his space again, the breath of her words ghosting over his lips, “is always welcome.”

 

They spent a few more lazy minutes in bed, just kissing, and Clint let himself enjoy it, pretending that he was just an ordinary married guy in bed with his wife--not an Avenger, not part of a fractured triad marriage, not an aging spy with creaking bones and an awful case of PTSD. Just Clint Barton, husband and father, in bed with Laura Barton, wife and mother and far, far too good for him.

 

In his crib, Nate stirred and whimpered, and Clint heaved a sigh, lifting his head and squinting across the room. “Hey,” he said. “Can you not? Dad’s trying to actually get some loving, here.”

  
Laura burst out into a fit of giggles, pushing him away. “Just for that, you can go put the coffee up,” she said. “Go on, get. Shoo.”

 

Clint shot her a pitiful look, but he rolled out of bed, ignoring the protests of his joints, and padded barefoot to the crib. Nate blinked up at him, not quite fussing yet, and Clint couldn’t help smiling at the wide-eyed expression on Nate’s face, putting him immediately in mind of a baby bird. He kicked himself for that, vowing to never let Tony know how Cooper had gotten his nickname, and reached into the crib to lift the baby out, tucking him into the crook of his arm. “Hey, baby boy,” he murmured, and Nate made a pleased cooing noise, his eyes settling to half-mast. Clint shook his head, bringing him over to the bed. “Here,” he said. “He still feels dry enough, I think he’ll be okay. Not sure if he’ll eat yet, but he probably wants the contact.”

 

“I’ll take him,” Laura said, holding out her arms. She looked sleepy and a little bleary-eyed, but her expression softened to loving calm as soon as Nate was in her arms. “Hello, darling,” she cooed to him, leaning down to press a kiss to his nose. “Did you miss your mama? Hm?”

 

Clint bent and kissed her head. “I’m going to go put the coffee on,” he said. “Want me to bring you some?”

 

She shook her head. “I’ll come down in a bit.”

 

“You got it.” She tilted her head up to be kissed properly, and he smiled, capturing her lips briefly before pulling away. It took a few minutes of tired stumbling to find a pair of sweatpants and a flannel--“Not a word,” he said warningly to Laura, who grinned and ducked her head behind Nate’s--and he decided that socks would be too much effort, heading downstairs instead.

 

The kitchen was bathed in warm morning sunlight. The only sound was soft birdsong filtering in through the windows, and Clint eased them open, letting the gentle breeze in. It carried in a hint of chill off the dewy fields, but the dampness woke him up, and he breathed it in, taking long, slow inhales and exhales.

 

He found himself reluctant to disturb the quiet peace of the house by grinding fresh coffee beans, and he rummaged in the freezer for pre-ground beans instead, coming up with a bag he’d nicked from the Avengers Tower and a triumphant grin. He set the machine to brew and took out a few mugs, grabbing one for Wanda as an afterthought, unsure if she’d drink it. With a glance at the machine that confirmed the brew would take at least a few minutes more, he padded into the living room, straightening up the blankets and throw pillows from the night before that they’d left sprawled around from the impromptu movie night. He rescued a few of Lila’s toys and Cooper’s Legos from the potential impending wrath of Laura’s vacuuming, tossing them into their respective bins stored in cubbies under the TV stand, straightened back up with a wince as his back popped.

 

The scent of fresh coffee drifted over to him, and he followed it back into the kitchen, pouring himself a much-needed mug. Only years of burned tongues kept him from immediately chugging it back, and he stopped himself at the last minute, looking sadly at it before lowering it from his lips. _Patience, Hawkeye_ , he could almost hear Natasha saying, and chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck ruefully with his spare hand.

 

Practicality won out over the need for caffeination and he sighed, wandering towards the study to check his email, maybe shoot off a message to Steve to update him on Wanda. He’d sent him a text when they’d touched down by the farm just to let him know they’d made it, but nothing since, and his phone had been silent--Cap respecting his space, most likely, and Clint was grateful for it.

 

He stepped through the study door, and stopped short.

 

Natasha was curled where he’d left her, in a ball on Laura’s desk chair, the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders. Her head was pillowed on one of her hands, her curls tousled where they escaped from the hood of her--or was it Clint’s? It had been passed around between the three of them for so long, he wasn’t sure--sweatshirt.

 

Clint felt a pang of guilt. _I shouldn’t have left her_ , he thought, putting his coffee down on his desk with a silent touch of ceramic to wood, crossing the room and kneeling down in front of her chair. Gently, very gently, he touched her knees. “Tasha?”

 

She jerked awake at his touch, her head snapping up, eyes wide and instantly alert. Her gaze swept the room rapidly, assessing for threats, and then, almost as quickly as her body had snapped to attention, the tension faded from her bones and exhaustion seeped back into her features. She slumped back into the chair and blinked blearily at him. “Clint?”

 

“Hey, Red.” He tried to smile at her, but it fell flat. “Did you sleep down here?”

 

It was a stupid question with an obvious answer, and the expression she gave him told him that she knew it. “I must have fallen asleep,” she said, pushing her hood back and running her hands through her hair. Her fingers caught in her curls and she grimaced, tugging them free with a wince and rubbing her eyes. “My neck is killing me.”

 

“I don’t think the chair was meant for sleeping in,” Clint said, going for cheerful. Natasha gave him a skeptical look, and he twitched out a wry smile before climbing to his feet. “Coffee?” he offered.

 

Natasha’s expression relaxed. “Please,” she said, and he picked up his mug and handed it to her. She took it, inhaling the steam deeply, and then paused before she could bring it to her lips, glancing up at him. “Did you know I was here?”

 

“No.” He leaned against Laura’s desk, close enough to her to touch, but not reaching for her, respecting her space. “I came in to check my email.”

 

Natasha raised her eyebrows. “Is this your coffee?”

 

He shrugged. “What’s mine is yours,” he said, going for gallant. She snorted, but lifted it to her lips, taking a long sip. Clint managed to resist the urge to make a _fire cannot kill a dragon_ comment, settling for watching her quietly, taking in the circles under her eyes and the faint lines of tension around her brow and mouth. She’d hide it under careful, artfully-applied makeup at the first chance, he knew, for Wanda’s benefit if not for his, and he wanted to catalog her face while he could. “Why didn’t you come up to bed?” She looked sharply at him, and he shook his head. “Not like that. Your bed.”

 

She eyed him for a moment longer, and then dropped her gaze, looking down into the mug and stroking her thumb over the ridges on the mug. It was a horrendous purple-pink clay thing that Lila had made in kindergarten, painted with proper glaze and fired in a kiln. It was horribly ugly, and Clint treasured it. “I meant to,” she admitted after a long moment. “But you gave me the choice, and I couldn’t...I couldn’t decide. I wanted to come up to be with you and Laura, but I didn’t want to compromise taking space for myself, and I knew that the longer I spent in bed with you two the harder it would be for me to eventually leave.”

 

Clint hesitated. “I don’t want to pressure you,” he said slowly. “You know that, right?”

 

“I know.” She looked up at him, pressing her lips together in a faint smile. “I must have fallen asleep trying to figure out what to do.”

 

“I bet your neck is gonna thank you for that,” he quipped, before he could stop himself, and Natasha snorted out a laugh.

 

“You gonna massage it for me, Barton?” He waggled his eyebrows at her, and she laughed, shaking her head and taking another sip of coffee. “The kids back yet?”

 

Clint shook his head. “Not just yet.” He gave her a wry grin. “Think Wanda’ll be able to handle them?”

 

Natasha grinned. “She’ll be in for a treat.” She climbed to her feet without even a wince, the blanket falling from around her shoulders like a cape draping off the back of some noble queen, and Clint managed, with considerable effort, not to pout out the unfairness of it. “Come on, Barton,” she said, holding out a hand. “Let’s get you another mug of coffee, and figure out what to feed the troops.”

 

Clint chuckled, taking her outstretched hand. She threaded her fingers through his, and held it all the way into the kitchen.

 

**2006**

 

The country makes Laura feel alive in a way that she’d forgotten she could feel.

 

The farm sits on the outskirts of town but still only a short drive in, and for them, their tiny family, it’s perfect. They’re far enough away from the rest of the world that any approaching cars can be heard a mile off, which makes her assassin-spy spouses happy, and close enough that it’s easy to head in for dinner or to bring Cooper into town for a day at the library. Laura applies for, and gets, a job at the local middle-high school as an art teacher, but won’t start until the fall when the current teacher leaves, so she gets to spend a lazy, comfortable summer with her baby, her husband, and her wife as they settle into a new home.

 

And it _does_ feel like home, _their_ home, far more than she had expected it to. Her grandmother leaves behind more than any of them were banking on, but enough of their furniture from various New York apartments makes it into the house--Clint’s ugly but absurdly comfortable couch, Natasha’s mattress (which probably cost more than Laura wants to know about), Laura’s paint-stained crafting table. Their books and clothes take up the most room in the U-HAUL, and Laura and Natasha spend a series of days laughing over the mismatched, eclectic collection the three of them have amassed over the years and trying to figure out a system to organize it into the bookshelves scattered throughout the house. Clint tags out of that operation immediately, taking the baby and retreating to the living room under the excuse that he’d make more of a mess than he’d help with.

 

Which, to be fair, is true.

 

Clint, for his part, spends his time with the more complex renovation projects. When Laura’s brother Michael finishes school in May with a degree in agricultural science and moves into town, the two of them find a contractor to help them sketch out plans and then banish Laura and Natasha to a hotel for a week while they gut out the second floor, knocking down walls and expanding the master bedroom into a master suite. It’s a ridiculous project and Natasha looks more than doubtful that they’ll pull it off, but when Clint leads them upstairs, covered in bandages and what look vaguely like pieces of plaster, and proudly shows off the brand-new bathroom, Laura takes one look at her new jacuzzi tub and throws herself into his arms, grinning. Natasha, cackling, covers Cooper’s eyes, and Mike shakes his head in amusement.

 

They settle into a comfortable routine, waking early and cooking together in the kitchen, playing with the baby, marveling over the tiny--and sometimes not-so-tiny--everyday changes in him as he grows. Laura finds that she loves motherhood more than anything she’s ever loved before, despite the stretch marks and sore nipples and persistent pudge to her stomach that refuses to disappear no matter how much exercise she does. Nat and Clint still travel for work sometimes, but almost always separately, clearly still reluctant to leave her on her own with Cooper in a still-strange place. They do go together sometimes, but never for long, and one or the other calls in twice or three times a day.

 

Laura hopes the protectiveness wears off soon. It’s a little stifling.

 

She joins a playgroup in June for Cooper, which is less of a playgroup and more of a mother’s group, since the babies in it range in age from four months to just under a year old and aren’t really up to interacting with each other yet. The mothers, on the other hand, do, chatting over coffee and lattes and the occasional, almost guilty, glass of wine.

 

It’s not New York-level gossip, but the girls are nice enough, and the babies are adorable, so Laura keeps going.

 

But she figures the other shoe is going to drop sometime.

 

“So, Laura,” Beth says, curling her socked feet under her on Jessica’s squishy green sofa. “We’ve got to ask.”

 

Laura raises her eyebrows. She glances down at Cooper, who’s gurgling happily on his back on the play mat Jess spread out on the floor before they arrived and waving his fists in the air, and then looks back up at Beth. “About?”

 

Beth exchanges a glance with Jess and Anna, and then looks back at her. “We were wondering…” she hesitates, and then seems to give up on subtlety. “What’s the deal with that woman who lives with you?”

 

Laura blinks. The question isn’t what she was expecting. “Tasha?” She rearranges her knees on the armchair, careful to balance her mug of coffee to avoid spilling any. “She’s a friend.”

 

“But it’s…” Anna looks like she can’t decide whether to be intrigued or uncomfortable. “It’s a little unorthodox, isn’t it? A married couple with a roommate?”

 

“She’s a good friend,” Laura begins, but her phone rings, interrupting her. She holds up a finger and puts her mug down on the coffee table, slipping her phone out of her pocket and glancing at the caller ID before answering. “Speak of the devil,” she says.

 

On the other end of the line, Natasha laughs, low and sultry. “Were you talking about me?”

 

“I was indeed.” Laura grins at the sound of her voice, but manages to resist touching her wedding band. “When did you get back?”

 

“A little while ago. Clint’s not flying in until tomorrow, he said he wants to make sure he doesn’t leave a trail.” Natasha sounds displeased about it, not that Laura can blame her. Clint’s been almost paranoid over the past few months about covering his and Natasha’s tracks. When Laura had confronted him about it, just trying to figure out what’s been bothering him, he’d admitted that he’d had a few run-ins with a government agent trying to offer him a job, and wanted to be sure he wasn’t followed. “Where are you?”

 

“I’m at playgroup.”

 

“Joy,” Natasha says dryly.

 

An idea strikes Laura. “Why don’t you join us?”

 

Natasha sounds amused. “Well, for the first point, you’ve got my kid, so I don’t have one to bring along.”

 

“You can bring some pastries or something. I was supposed to, and I forgot because Cooper was fussy all morning.” Really she’d just forgotten. But no one needs to know that. “Come on, the girls are asking about you anyway. You can tell them about yourself.”

 

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

 

“Of course it is.” Laura smiled at Beth’s curious expression. “I’ll text you the address. See you in ten?”

 

“Fifteen,” Natasha says, chuckling. “If I’m going to stop and get you some pastries.”

 

Laughing, Laura hangs up, slipping her phone back into her bag. “You’re in luck,” she tells the girls. “You’ll get to ask all your questions in person.”

 

Fifteen minutes later on the dot, the doorbell rings. Jess gets up to answer it, bouncing a fussing Lucy on her hip, and comes back from the foyer a moment later with Natasha on her heels. “Look who’s here,” Jess says brightly. “And she brought cookies!”

 

“Chocolate chip,” Natasha says, looking more than a little amused by the domesticity of the scene as she puts the box of cookies on the table. “Hope no one’s allergic. Hello, sweetheart,” she adds, her voice going high and gentle, and she bends down to scoop Cooper off the floor. He makes a delighted sound to see her, catching her hair in his tiny fists and squealing happily, and Natasha laughs, leaning down and kissing his nose. “I missed you!”

 

“He missed you, too,” Laura says, smiling at her. “Thanks for the cookies. How was your flight?”

 

Natasha sits down cross-legged on the floor, settling Cooper into her lap. “Not bad,” she says, stroking a hand over Cooper’s soft dark hair. He chews contentedly on two of his fingers, looking up at her. She looks around the room, taking in the decor and, Laura thinks idly, probably cataloguing all the entrances and exits and potential threats, before smiling at the other women in the room. “Hi,” she says pleasantly. “I’m Natasha.”

 

“We figured,” Anna says, tucking a few strands of her honey-blonde hair behind her ear. “I’m Anna. This is Beth, and you’ve just met Jessie.” Jess and Beth wave, and Anna smiles. “The little ones are Lucy, Sam, and Theo.”

 

“Good to meet you.” Natasha glances briefly at Laura, and Laura reaches over and opens the box from the bakery, plucking out two cookies and handing one to Natasha. “Thanks.”

 

Laura smiles at her as Jess comes back into the room, Lucy in one arm and a steaming mug in her other hand. “Did you want any cream or sugar, Natasha?”

 

Natasha smiles pleasantly at her. It’s so unlike her usual smile, which is all grace and humor and cleverness, that Laura has to stifle a snort of laughter. “No, thank you. Black is fine.” She accepts the mug from Jess and sips at it. “This is great. Thanks.” Lowering the mug, she strokes the back of the fingers of her spare hand over Cooper’s cheek and glances at the other women. “So, Laura says you were asking about me?”

 

Beth flushes a little. “Well, we were just...a little curious. How do you know Laura and Clint? You all moved out here together, right?”

 

“Yes.” Natasha takes another sip of coffee. “We came out from New York. Laura inherited the place from her grandmother. Clint and I go way back; I met Laura through him.”

 

“Laura told us about that.” Anna sags a cookie and takes a bite. “Have you lived with them long?”

 

Natasha nods. She looks comfortable, Laura realizes; but then, answering questions with a false personality is part of Natasha’s job. She wonders if the character Natasha is playing has a name. “A few years.”

 

Jess hesitates, and then asks, “And your husband doesn’t mind?”

 

She gestures to Natasha’s left hand, where the rose gold of Natasha’s wedding band glimmers in the afternoon sun that filters in through Jess’s living room window. Shit, Laura thinks, but Natasha takes the question in easy stride, her expression going soft and sad. “My husband passed away four years ago,” she says quietly. “I didn’t really know what to do with myself. Laura and Clint took me in. I’ve been with them ever since. It made sense--Clint and I both travel for work, and he hated leaving Laura on her own, especially back in the city. Then when they came out here, it made sense to have the extra help with Coop.” She smiles down at Cooper, who gurgles up at her and attempts to grab at her necklace. With an easy, practiced motion, she moves his hand away. “I know it’s a little weird, but it works for us.”

 

Beth touches a hand to her heart, her eyes wide. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she says, sounding tearful enough that Laura believes. Beth is the kind of person who goes misty-eyed at commercials with puppies and kittens in shelters.

 

Then again, so is Clint, who’s been trying to persuade Laura and Natasha to get a dog since they’d moved out to the farmhouse. So far, he’s been unsuccessful, though Laura knows that if Natasha caves, she’s screwed.

 

Natasha shakes her head. “It’s been a long time,” she says. The pain in her voice is genuine, though, and Laura swallows. “I miss him every day. But having this little guy around helps.” She bends her head and kisses the top of Cooper’s, and then glances up, smiling slightly. “Does that answer your question? I do know it’s a strange situation.”

 

“No, don’t be silly!” Anna leans forward, her expression earnest. “We shouldn’t have been prying into your business. Everyone’s family is different.”

 

Laura doesn’t think they’d be quite as accepting if they knew the truth, but she smiles anyway. “She helps me deal with Clint’s crazy remodeling jobs,” she says dryly. “I’d go crazy without her.”

 

“Laura!” Jess chides. “You need to let her have _some_ fun.” She props her chin on her hand. “Are you interested in getting back into the dating scene, Natasha? I know it’s a small town, but there are plenty of nice guys here.”

 

Laura bristles, but Natasha laughs. “I don’t think so,” she says. “Like I said, I’m out of town a lot. I’m not really around enough to give a new relationship the time it deserves.”

 

Anna waggles her eyebrows. “Who said anything about a relationship?”

 

Beth gasps. “ _Annabelle!_ ” she chides. Anna dissolves into cackles, nearly falling off the couch. Her son Theo blinks almost owlishly at her, and she leans down to nuzzle her nose against his. Beth shakes her head, giving Natasha an apologetic, vaguely scandalized look. “Sorry.”

 

Natasha, looking like she’s trying not to laugh, shakes her head. “Don’t apologize,” she says, amusement curling her lips. “I’m not really the casual relationship type,” she tells Anna, her eyes sparkling with mirth. She doesn’t look at Laura, but Laura can see she’s laughing on the inside. “Anyway, I’m not hugely interested in getting back out there. As odd as it is, I’m happy with the way my life is right now.”

 

Jess raises her eyebrows. “Really?”

 

Natasha glances at her, and Laura knows she’s thinking about what it looks like from the outside--a single, widowed woman, living with a happily married couple, helping them raise their baby on a farm in the middle of nowhere. Natasha’s gaze shifts to Laura, and she smiles, slow and content. “Really,” she says. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

 

**2015**

 

By the time Laura managed to get downstairs, Nate in her arms, the smell of fresh coffee permeated the house, and she inhaled deeply as she made her way into the kitchen. “I smell caffeine,” she announced. “And I need it immediately.”

 

“About time,” Clint said, pouring her a mug and bringing it to her as she collapsed into her chair at the table. “I was about to send up a search party.”

 

“Diaper blowout,” she said, bouncing Nate in one arm and blowing steam off her coffee. Clint gave her a look that was half sympathy and half _better you than me_ , and Laura rolled her eyes. “You’ll get the next one, Hawkeye.”

 

He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “You got it,” he promised, bending to run a hand over the top of Nate’s head before heading back to the kitchen counter. “I threw together some pancake batter,” he said over his shoulder. “Figured it would be quick and easy. There’s fresh fruit I can cut up, and I put some protein powder in with the batter.”

 

Laura sipped her coffee, giving him an amused look over the rim of her mug. “Why, Clint Barton,” she said. “That’s practically a balanced meal.”

 

Clint snorted. “Contrary to popular belief, I can function as an adult.”

 

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Laura said dryly. Soft laughter behind her made her twist to look over her shoulder in time to catch Natasha emerging from the study, a mug of her own clasped in her hands. Despite the amusement in her expression, she looked exhausted, dark circles smudging under her eyes and her sweatshirt zipped up to the hood.

 

Natasha glanced her way, and Laura quickly erased her frown from her face--not quickly enough, apparently, because Natasha’s eyebrows quirked, her lips twitching upwards. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It was just a rough night’s sleep.”

 

Clint glanced at her, narrowing his eyes, and Natasha sighed, sitting down beside Laura. “Fine,” she said grudgingly. “Not just a rough night’s sleep. I was…I couldn’t…”

 

Her fingers flexed around her mug, knuckles whitening, and Laura put her own cup down, reaching over and curling her hand over Natasha’s. “It’s all right,” she said quietly. “Clint told me some of it. You can tell me the rest when you’re ready to.” Natasha gave her a small, grateful smile, and Laura squeezed her wrist briefly before sitting back and picking up her mug again, looking around the room. “This is a very clean first floor,” she commented.

 

“That is because I’m an excellent husband,” Clint said at the counter, ladling pancake batter onto a pan and then bringing a bowl of fresh blueberries and sliced strawberries to the table, setting it between them. “Not that I get any appreciation,” he said over his shoulder, going back to the kitchen.

 

“Hey,” Laura said. “Come here.”

 

Clint eyed her suspiciously, taking a glance at the pan and then coming back within arms’ reach. Laura put down her mug, reached out, and smacked his ass. “I appreciate you,” she said.

 

He squawked. “That’s what you wanted me back here for?” She grinned, picking up her mug and nodding, and he rolled his eyes. “I swear, Laura…” Still grumbling, he went back to the stove.

 

“Hate to see you go, love to watch you leave,” Laura teased, mostly to watch Natasha dissolve into silent snickering beside her. She gave the other woman a pleased look over the rim of her cup, and then glanced up at the ceiling. “Should we wake Wanda, do you think? The kids getting home will almost definitely get her out of bed, but I bet she’ll want to be awake before the stampede so that she has a little time to prepare.”

 

“Makes sense,” Natasha said. “Clint?”

 

“Sure,” he said, flipping a pancake. He tilted his head up. “Wanda!” he yelled. “Breakfast!”

 

If she’d had a free hand, Laura would have smacked her forehead. Trust Clint to go into dad mode with the flighty psychic. She glared at him, and he had the dignity to give her a sheepish look. “Sorry,” he said, shrugging one shoulder. “Force of habit.”

 

Footsteps pounded on the stairs, and Wanda came around the landing, sleep-bleary and tousled. “I heard my name,” she said, her hands glowing faintly red. “Someone shouted?”

 

“That would be Clint,” Laura said, shaking her head. “Sorry. He was just letting you know that breakfast is ready.”

 

Wanda blinked. “Oh,” she said. She blinked again a few times, as if trying to put the words together--Laura couldn’t blame her, translating things into a foreign language first thing in the morning couldn’t be easy--and then said, “I would like some coffee, please. Some strong coffee.”

 

“That’s the only way it’s brewed in this house,” Clint said. He poured her a cup and held it out, and she padded across the room to take it from him, her socked feet soundless on the floor. She was wearing a sweatshirt that looked several sizes too large for her and a pair of leggings that fit much more snugly, and looked the most comfortable Laura had seen her since she’d arrived. “Sleep okay?”

 

Sipping her coffee, Wanda nodded. “Very well,” she said. “Thank you.” She glanced between the three of them, her gaze settling on Natasha. She frowned briefly, but Natasha gave a minute shake of her head, and Wanda seemed to accept that, sitting down across from Natasha. “When are your other children coming home? Clint said they would be back this morning.”

 

“Any minute, probably,” Laura said. Nate gurgled almost happily, and she smiled down at him, kissing his nose. “I should warn you, they’re loud.”

 

Wanda smiled. “Clint also said that,” she said. “But I do not mind. I like children.” She leaned her elbows on the table, holding her mug in both hands. “Will you tell me about them? Clint only said a little on the plane, and then I fell asleep.”

 

Laura bounced Nate thoughtfully, trying to come up with simple ways to describe her very interesting children. “Cooper’s almost ten,” she said. “Tall for his age, though. He’s the quiet one, though not actually very quiet at all. He thinks a lot, and sometimes I think he’s a bit too smart for his own good. He takes a little while to warm up to people, but he’ll talk your ear off once he trusts you. He’s a builder--he likes to create things.”

 

She kissed Nate’s nose again, and then looked back at Wanda. “Lila’s a rainbow child,” she said. “She’s six, and she’s just got this kind of...passionate energy that makes her impossible not to love. She loves color and light and brightness and creativity.” She shook her head. “They couldn’t be more different, really, but they’re wonderful children.” She smiled at Clint. “We did a good job, I think,” she said, glancing at Natasha, who gave a small, slightly pained smile.

 

“I think so,” Clint said, coming to the table with a plate heaped high with pancakes, smoothing his free hand through her hair as he set the plate down. “More you than me.”

 

“You did plenty,” she told him, and shifted slightly in her chair. “Can you get Nate’s seat for me?”

 

“I’ll take him,” Natasha offered. Laura shrugged and passed him over, figuring that Natasha wouldn’t have any problem eating one-handed. Nate fussed a bit at the transition, but Natasha settled him easily in the crook of her arm, stabbing a pancake with her fork and setting it onto her plate as Clint came back over with his own coffee cup and the syrup.

 

Wanda started to reach for the bowl of fruit, and then paused. “Someone’s coming,” she said, tensing.

 

Laura glanced up at her, and a moment later heard the familiar puffing of Mike’s truck coming up the road. “That’s my brother and the kids,” she said. Relief flooded Wanda’s face and Laura smiled at her, getting to her feet. “This is a safe place, Wanda,” she reminded her gently. “Things are okay here.”

 

Wanda gave a small smile. “It’s instinct.”

 

She said it as if it was something to be ashamed of, and Laura touched her shoulder with light fingers. “I know.”

 

The engine sounds cut off. Car doors slammed, footsteps pounded on the porch steps, and the front door was flung open. “Daddy!” Lila cried from the doorway. “Cooper, Daddy’s home!”

 

Clint drained his mug and stood up. “This is going to hurt,” he muttered, and stepped around the table and into the foyer. “Hey, munchkins,” he called, and Laura winced at the volume of Lila’s shriek as she sprinted into his arms, leaping up. Clint swept her up into a hug, pressing his face into her neck, and if he held her a little tighter than he generally does, Laura can’t really blame him.

 

She pulled away after a moment, looking at him. “You look sleepy,” she said decisively.

 

“Your little brother kept me and Mom up all night,” he said, shifting to hold her in one arm and pulling Cooper into a tight hug with the other. “Hey, buddy.”

 

“Hey, Dad,” Cooper said, his voice slightly muffled into Clint’s shirt. “Did you bring your friend back like you were gonna?”

 

“I did indeed.” Clint put Lila down--she scampered happily to Laura, who lifted her into a hug with considerably more effort than it had probably cost Clint--and led Cooper back over to the kitchen table. Laura let Lila slide out of her arms, and Lila took her hand, following her father and brother and tugging Laura after her. “Kids, this is Wanda,” Clint said, putting both hands on Cooper’s shoulders as Wanda got to her feet, looking a little nervous. “Wanda, these are my older kids, Cooper and Lila.”

 

“Nice to meet you,” Cooper said, holding out his hand. Wanda shot Laura a look, as if for permission, and then shook it. “Can you really fly?”

 

Wanda shot a glance that bordered suspiciously on a glare at Natasha, who blinked innocently back. “I am still learning,” she said. “Can you shoot arrows like your father?”

 

Cooper grinned. “Not really,” he said. “But I’m working on it!”

 

“I am, too!” Lila announced. Wanda smiled at her. “ _And_ ,” Lila said, as if preparing a presidential speech, “you’re _very_ pretty.”

 

Wanda looked taken aback. “Thank you,” she began. “You are, too.”

 

Lila beamed. “I know!” she said. “Hey, Cooper, there’s pancakes!”

 

She made a rush for the table, clambering into a chair and leaving Wanda, blinking and amused, in her wake. “Welcome to the real Barton farm,” Laura said dryly, slinging an arm around Cooper’s shoulders and leading him over to the table. “It’s about to get louder.”

 

Wanda smiled, soft and peaceful and real. “Good,” she said, looking at Laura with a sparkle in her eyes, and for the first time, she looked like a girl in her mid-twenties, not like a woman who had seen too much of war. “I’m looking forward to it.”

 

**2006**

 

Night settles over the farm quietly, a far cry from the constant motion and activity of the city. Even after months of living here, Clint still can’t quite get used to the lack of sound, and finds himself checking the sensors on his hearing aids again and again to make sure they’re working. Fortunately, Cooper’s a vocal baby, even after he’s started sleeping through the night, and Clint takes to carrying the baby monitor clipped to his belt after Cooper goes down to bed, reassuring himself with the snuffling sounds Cooper makes in his sleep, the incoherent babbling while he’s still awake.

 

On warm summer nights like this one, they sit on the broad porch once Cooper’s in his crib for the night, drinking and talking. Tonight, Laura and Natasha are curled together on the porch swing, sharing a glass of wine, Natasha’s legs draped comfortably across Laura’s lap. Clint’s in the rocker beside them, nursing a bottle of beer and watching the two of them, Cooper’s breathing softly audible from the monitor’s speaker attached to the pocket of his jeans. He watches the two of them, unable to keep the smile off his face, because there might come a day when he’s able to look at these two women without grinning like an idiot, but today is not that day.

 

As unnerving as the Iowa quiet is, it does have its perks--like the fact that they can hear an incoming car from about a mile away. Clint frowns, sitting up straighter in the chair, turning down the volume of the baby monitor so that he can zero in on the sound of wheels on gravel, the hum of an engine. “Nat,” he says.

 

“I hear it.” Natasha’s expression goes calculating and quiet, the way it does when she’s trying to place a sound in her mental rolodex. “That’s a government Ford Escape SUV,” she says, the corners of her mouth tightening. “They modify the acceleration abilities of the engines for government issue vehicles.”

 

Laura raises her eyebrows at her. “You can tell that from the sound of the engine?”

 

Natasha shrugs one shoulder. “It’s a very distinctive sound.” She glances at Clint, her face tense. “Why would a government car be driving out here?”

 

“I don’t know,” Clint says slowly. “There’s no--” The image of a smiling, unassuming man in a dark suit flickers into his memory, and he shoots to his feet with a curse.

 

Laura looks at him, concern flickering in her eyes. “Clint?”

 

“Nat, pack up Laura and the baby and get out of here. Take the back route out.” He’s already moving into the house, leaving the door open behind him. “Fast.”

 

“Clint, what are you talking about?” Laura looks worried now, following him inside. Natasha’s already running up the stairs, no doubt going for the go bags already stashed, fully packed, in their closet. “What’s going on?”

 

“It’s gotta be that agent I keep running into,” Clint says, opening his bow case and snapping the bow open, checking the string. “Coulson. He’s been following my jobs for a couple years now, since that job in Monaco. Bastard must have put some kind of tracker on me.” He could kick himself for being so stupid. He’s led them right to the farm, right to Nat and Laura and Cooper.

 

“Clint.” Laura’s hand closes on his arm, her voice stern, and he looks at her. She fixes him with serious eyes, her other hand coming up to curl over his cheek. “This is not your fault.”

 

He snorts. “It kind of is, Laura.”

 

“No, it isn’t.” Natasha comes down the stairs, two bags slung over her shoulder and an awake, fussing Cooper in her arms. She passes the baby to Laura, who bounces him gently to soothe him, and turns to Clint. “The guy’s been after you for years trying to head hunt you into honest work. He’s probably just not waiting to follow you from job to job anymore.”

 

Clint glares at her, slinging the strap of his quiver over his chest. “Or he’s here to shoot me, and in _either_ case, I’ve managed to keep you and Laura off my books. I don’t want you ending up in the crossfire.”

 

“It’d be a waste of money to shoot you now,” Natasha said reasonable.

 

Laura hesitates, still rocking Cooper. “Should we not go?”

 

“No, we should.” Natasha takes the keys to her car from the bowl in the entryway. “Clint’s right. He can look after himself, but if things go south, you shouldn’t be here.” She pulls on a shoulder holster, takes a gun out of one of the bags and slips it in, then pulls a light denim jacket on top of it. She crosses the room to Clint, standing on tiptoe to press her lips to his. “Don’t get yourself killed,” she says, just a little gruffly.

 

Clint nods, a rough, jerky motion of his head. “Don’t tell me when you’re going,” he says. “I’ll text the code word if it’s safe to come back. You don’t hear from me in forty-eight hours, get off the grid. No safe houses I know about.”

 

She gives a twitching nod of confirmation. She doesn’t look happy, but he knows she’ll do what it takes. Laura and the baby come before he does, and she knows that as well as him. “I’ll be in the car,” she tells Laura, and with a last glance at Clint, heads for the back door.

 

Clint watches her go, and then turns to Laura. He holds his arms out and she places Cooper into them. Clint hugs him tight, tight enough that Cooper makes a small sound of protest, squirming in Clint’s arms, and Clint relaxes his grip. “I love you, buddy,” he whispers, kissing Cooper’s head. “You’re the best thing I ever did.”

 

Laura steps closer to him. “Clint,” she says, just his name, her voice wavering uncertainly.

 

“It’s gonna be okay, Laur.” He passes Cooper back to her, and Laura swallows visibly, taking him and buckling him quickly into his carseat. “You’d better go,” he says. “There’s not much time.”

 

“I know,” she begins, and then rushes into his arms, flinging hers around his neck. He wraps his arms around her and holds on, breathing in the smell of her hair, just in case he never gets to again. “I love you,” she says against his neck, tearful, and Clint tightens his arms.

 

“I love you too.” He lets her go, hating the motion. The sound of the car engine was too close for comfort now. “ _Go_ ,” he says, urgent.

 

Laura goes, picking up Cooper’s carrier and rushing out the back door.

 

To Clint’s pride, she doesn’t look back.

 

The sound of Natasha’s car pulling away from the back of the house is a smooth, barely audible hum, the crunching of the tires on the gravel too loud for Clint’s comfort. But it’s overshadowed by the much louder sound of the government car pulling up in the front drive.

 

Clint takes a breath. “Alright, motherfuckers,” he mutters. “Let’s do this.”

 

Rolling his shoulders back, he heads back through the open door and onto the porch, nocking an arrow and drawing back the string just as the black SUV slows to a smooth stop. “Out of the car,” he calls, loud enough to be heard. “Hands up.”

 

The driver’s side door opens, and Phil Coulson gets up, smiling placidly at Clint in the porch light. “Good evening, Mr. Barton,” he says, his voice even and friendly. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m paying a home visit.”

 

“Believe it or not, I do,” Clint says, keeping the arrow trained on Coulson’s throat. “How did you find me?”

 

“High-tech tracking polymer on the back of the business card I gave you the first time we met.”

 

Clint very, very carefully doesn’t let his expression change. Mentally, he wants to stab himself in the eye with one of his own arrows. “Congratulations,” he says. “You found me. Now you can leave.”

 

“Afraid I can’t do that, Barton,” Coulson says. He looks past Clint to the farmhouse, raising his eyebrows. “Although I have to say, this isn’t what I was expecting. I was thinking of something more like a bachelor pad in New York, not a farmhouse in the middle of the country.”

 

“It’s a family place,” Clint says, which is half true. “I think I asked you to put your hands up.”

 

Coulson raises his hands above his head. “I came unarmed,” he says.

 

Clint snorts. “Yeah, I believe that. Just like I believe you don’t have another crew of SUVs ready to charge in here.”

 

“Believe it or not, I don’t.” Coulson shrugs, which looks fairly amusing with his arms up. “Like I’ve been telling you, I want to offer you a job.”

 

“And like _I’ve_ been telling _you_ ,” Clint says, “I like calling my own shots.”

 

“So you’ve said, Mr. Barton,” a new, much deeper voice says. The passenger side door opens, and a tall, seriously imposing black guy with an eye patch climbs out. Clint snaps the bow to him, keeping his motions carefully controlled, and the man gives him a grin that’s far less benign than Coulson’s. “But I was thinking we could try to make that offer a little more...appealing.”

 

Clint narrows his eyes. “Who are you?”

 

Coulson looks like he can’t decide whether to be exasperated or affectionate. “This is Nick Fury,” he says. “The Director of SHIELD.”

 

Fury’s one eye glints in the yellow light. “Pleasure,” he says. “You’re not gonna invite us in? What, your momma didn’t raise you with manners?”

 

“You’ve got my juvie file,” Clint says dryly. “You know exactly what my mama raised me with.” Fury just looks at him, and Clint huffs out a sigh, lowering his bow and replacing the arrow in his quiver. “Fine,” he says. “Come on in.” He pauses. “You try to plant a bug and I put arrows in your eyes.”

 

Fury shrugs. “Fair enough,” he says. “Come on, Coulson, don’t refuse the man’s polite invitation.”

 

Clint rolls his eyes, opening the door and standing back to let the two men through. He sweeps his eyes over them as they enter, looking for any sign of the tell-tale bulge of hidden weaponry. He’s satisfied that they’re unarmed, though he doesn’t think for a second that makes either of them helpless. He follows them in, closing the door behind him, keeping his bow in his hand and watching them take in the living room--the baby toys scattered over the floor, a laundry basket of half-folded baby clothes and cloth diapers on the coffee table, Laura’s sweater tossed over the back of the couch.

 

Shit, Clint thinks. Cat’s out of the bag now.

 

In front of him, Fury gives a low chuckle. “Goddamn, Barton,” he says, his voice low and amused. “You really are full of surprises.”

 

Coulson turns to look at him, and for the first time, his expression is understanding and a little compassionate, not the false mask of pleasantness Clint has gotten used to. “This is what you’ve been trying to hide?” he asks. “That you’re a father?”

 

Clint shrugs, leaning against the wall. Sure, if that’s what they want to go with. “Government men lead public lives,” he says. “Even special agents have tax records tied to their real names. I don’t like my work coming home with me.”

 

Fury raises his visible eyebrow. “You admitting to tax fraud, Barton?”

 

“I pay my taxes. Just not under my name.” Clint crosses his arms. “Isn’t this the part where you try to sweeten whatever pot you’re trying to get me to buy into?”

 

Fury settles himself on the couch as if he owns it, heedless of Laura’s sweater. He probably can’t feel it through that ridiculous black trench coat. Clint feels a pressing need to make a comment about _Matrix_ extras wanting their costumes back, and suppresses it. “Coulson tells me that you’ve been rejecting our offer so far because you like working for yourself,” he says.

 

Clint narrows his eyes. “I don’t like other people telling me who to kill,” he says flatly. “I did my time with that. Not going back.”

 

“Fair enough,” Fury says agreeably. “You call all your own shots. You get to decide if you go for a kill or a capture. What else?”

 

That takes Clint by surprise. “What?”

 

Fury leans forward, his elbows resting loosely on his knees. “It’s clear your objection to SHIELD isn’t government work on principle,” he says, his tone light and conversational. “So now we’re just negotiating terms. Seeing what you need in order to come work for us, other than the generous salary and benefits package.”

 

Clint snorts. “Pretty sure I’ll be taking a pay cut.”

 

“And I’m just as sure you’ve got plenty to retire on already,” Fury counters. “So. Control on your ops. What else do you want?”

 

Clint hesitates. What would Nat ask for? “Do your agents have handlers?”

 

“Field agents do.”

 

“I want to choose mine. And I don’t want to live on any kind of base. I’ll travel for ops, but I’m not living on-site. I’m raising a kid, he needs to be able to recognize his father.”

 

Fury doesn’t blink. Wink? “Done.”

 

Clint gestures around the room. “And I want this place out of your records. Completely. No mention of my wife or my family in anything SHIELD has on file--electronic, paper, scrawled on a post-it, nothing.” A lightbulb goes off in his head as he realizes that he has more than just Laura and Cooper to protect. “Actually, add on to that. I want an hour with full access to your records to wipe out anything I don’t want on there. No tracers.”

 

That’s the first thing he’s said that seems to give Fury pause. “Any wiggle room on that last one, Barton?”

 

Clint shakes his head. “Every agency’s vulnerable. Even SHIELD. I want to make sure you don’t have anything that might get my family killed.” Because Natasha’s his family, too, and if he’s gotten onto SHIELD’s radar, chances are that she has as well--she’s just better at not getting caught.

 

Fury regards him thoughtfully for a moment, his one eye fixed on Clint’s. Clint holds his gaze, patient and unwavering. “You drive a hard bargain, Barton,” he says finally. “Fine. An hour with full server access.”

 

“Sir,” Coulson says, speaking up for the first time since Clint started laying down conditions, “are you sure that’s really--”

 

“You don’t like my hiring policies, Cheese, take it up with HR,” Fury says. “Well, Barton? In or out?”

 

Clint shakes his head. “Doesn’t work like that,” he says. “Major decision like this, I gotta clear it with my wife.” He nods to Fury, cracking a wry grin. “Married man like you oughta know that.”

 

It had been a guess, but the flicker of surprise that crosses Fury’s face makes it worth it. He chuckles, climbing to his feet. “Fair enough. I’ll expect an answer within forty-eight hours.” He nods towards Coulson. “You’ve got Phil’s card.”

 

Should’ve burned it when I had the chance, Clint thinks, but he shakes Fury’s outstretched hand anyway. “I’ll be in touch.”

 

“Good,” Fury says. He leaves, his dramatic coat billowing out behind him as he sweeps out the door.

 

Coulson holds out his hand. As Clint takes it, he says mildly, “You know, our agents usually have call signs to use in the field.” He slips his hands into his suit pockets, raising his eyebrows. “Got anything in mind?”

 

Despite himself, Clint grins. Nat and Laura are gonna kill him. “Well, I don’t know much about call signs,” he says. “But back in the circus, they used to call me Hawkeye.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: reference to canon-typical violence and brainwashing/mind control. It's a pretty tame chapter, actually. Wahey.
> 
> I survived NaNoWriMo, and I'm back! My original plan of attempting to work on this and NaNoWriMo simultaneously clearly failed, but I spent the last week powering through this chapter, and hope to get back onto a bi-weekly posting schedule. <3
> 
> Thanks as always for [Deb](debz0rz.tumblr.com) for her proofreading skills. Also thanks to [isjustprogress](isjustprogress) for her constant affection, encouragement, head-banging, and dog vines. And thank you, as always, to everyone who continues to leave comments and kudos--you warm my heart and keep me going. :) :)
> 
> Questions about my writing process? Thoughts about the fic? Find me [on tumblr!](geniusorinsanity.tumblr.com)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end of chapter for notes and warnings.

**2007**

 

Clint ships out to SHIELD in January, with a promise from Fury that he’ll be back from his “orientation period” before Cooper’s first birthday in March. The morning he’s due to leave, Clint spends an hour on the floor in Cooper’s room just playing with him, running a litany of “I love you”s and just watching him, trying to memorize every plane of his face and knowing that he’ll look completely different by the time Clint comes back. Natasha lounges near him, her hair dyed for her latest job, watching him with a sad sort of tenderness in her eyes. Her objections to Clint going legit had been stronger than Laura’s--or at the very least, louder--but Clint had won out when he’d pointed out that eventually the job offer would turn into a bullet between the eyes.

 

Laura taps gentle knuckles on the door frame, and Clint looks up from Cooper’s blocks. “Hey,” she says softly, leaning against the frame. “It’s almost time.”

 

“I know.” Clint reaches out and picks Cooper up, unable to suppress a smile at Cooper’s delighted squeal. “I wish there was a way to do this without leaving you.”

 

He says it to Cooper, but Laura seems to know he means her as well. “I know, honey,” she says. “But it’s just a few months, and Nat will be here the whole time. Nothing will happen.”

 

“It’s not about that,” Clint says. Nat snorts, raising her eyebrows at him, and Clint amends, “Not entirely.” He bounces Cooper lightly in his arms, Cooper’s dark blue eyes fixed on his, and wonders if Cooper will have his own sharp gaze one day. If he does, Clint hopes he uses it for something better than shooting people. “It’s...who knows how much I’m going to miss while I’m gone? He’s learning new things every day. He’s only going to have one set of firsts.”

 

Natasha’s expression softens. “Then we’ll take video of everything,” she says. “And we’ll call you every night to tell you everything he does until you’re bored with hearing about it.”

 

Laura hums her agreement, but Clint doesn’t take his eyes away from Cooper. “What if he forgets me?” he asks quietly.

 

“Oh, Clint,” Laura says. She crouches down beside him, her fingers gently stroking the back of his neck. “He won’t forget you.”

 

“He’s a baby,” Clint says. “Babies don’t have great memories, and two months is a long time.”

 

“We’ll Skype with you every day, then,” Laura says.

 

“Or however often you can get a secure computer line,” Natasha says, and Clint’s grateful for it. Trust Natasha to keep her head. “But he’s not going to forget you, Clint. You’re his father. Even if he doesn’t know who you are, he’ll know he’s happy to see you.”

 

Clint looks at Cooper, who attempts to reach for his nose and gives a gleeful yell of “da!” when he hooks one small finger into Clint’s nostril. Clint moves his head away to dislodge the finger to the sound of Natasha’s snickering. “I guess you’re right.”

 

“Good,” Natasha says decisively. “Now, put the baby down for a nap. You’re due for some goodbye sex before you leave.”

 

He leaves his wedding ring on a chain around Laura’s neck. He’d taken it off the day he’d told Fury he would take the job--Natasha tells him that indentations from a wedding band can take three months to really fade, and Clint’s not taking any chances.

 

SHIELD headquarters is in DC in a huge, fairly ugly building that Coulson tells him is called the Triskelion. “Fancy name,” Clint says dryly, adjusting his duffle over his shoulder.

 

Coulson shrugs. “We like a bit of flair now and then,” he says, showing Clint to his quarters.

 

Clint’s first week goes by in a fairly boring blur. He spends an annoying amount of time with a SHIELD psychologist getting his personality assessed, which he guesses is fair given his background and history of shooting people for money. Once psych clears him, Coulson gives him a security badge with an embarrassingly low security clearance-- “I’m pretty sure there are interns with clearance higher than this,” he tells Coulson. Coulson snorts. “This is an intelligence agency. We don’t _have_ interns.”--and sends him to the armory, where he proceeds to destroy every range record SHIELD holds while he’s qualifying on firearms.

 

By the time he finishes, there’s a small crowd, and people look like they can’t decide whether to be awed or annoyed. Clint gives everyone a shit-eating grin, turns in the last gun, pulls out his bow, and proceeds to shoot arrows through all of the bullet holes he’s just put through his most recent target.

 

That’s a good day.

 

Two weeks in, he meets his partner, an Asian woman a few years older than him named Melinda May. She has a sharp sense of humor hidden under a deadpan solemnity and a resting face that rivals his. She introduces herself with her name and a promise to shoot him in his sleep if he ever betrays SHIELD, and Clint likes her immediately. They spend an afternoon kicking the shit out of each other on sparring mats in the gym, measuring each other’s strengths and weaknesses, and Clint finds himself thinking that it’s really too bad that May would absolutely stab Natasha on sight, because they’d probably get along great.

 

A month in (and four security clearance levels up), May drags him off base to a bar in Foggy Bottom and orders a round of shots. “So,” she says, flat, when the waitress delivers the tray to their table. “What’s your story, Barton?”

 

Clint knocks back a shot of low-shelf whiskey, deliberately doesn’t wince at the burn, and raises his eyebrows at her. “What do you mean?”

 

May leans back against the booth, holding his gaze. “You’re not a military transfer. You’re not CIA or FBI. You’ve obviously got combat experience and done covert ops, but I can’t figure out where you came from, and your file’s redacted.” She narrows her eyes. “So. If I’m going to be your partner, I need to know something about you beyond the fact that you can shoot anything that moves, once you’re done flirting with it.”

 

(The flirting was Nat’s idea. “I’m not saying you should sleep with anyone,” she’d said, when both Clint and Laura had protested. “But bat those pretty eyes and be a little flirty. You’re trying to throw people off the fact that you’re married.”

 

“I still think it’s weird,” Clint had grumbled, but he’d agreed.)

 

Clint watches her for a long, thoughtful moment. To her credit, she’s right--they _do_ need to be able to trust each other. He shrugs. “I grew up in the circus,” he says.

 

May’s expression doesn’t change, but Clint’s pretty sure that if she wasn’t so well trained, she’d have laughed. “What?”

 

“Yep. Honest to God circus. Lions and everything.”

 

May takes a shot, her eyebrows drifting up. “What was your act? Sword swallowing?”

 

“Ha, ha.” Clint picks up his next shot, watching the dim bar lights reflect in the amber liquid. “No. I threw knives for awhile. Then they started training me on the bow.”

 

“How old were you?” May sounds more interested than Clint expected, and he leans back.

 

“Not very,” he says, which he figures is answer enough. “Some stuff went bad and I ended up bailing. I lied about my age and spent a few years in the military, got lucky enough to get a dishonorable discharge instead of being thrown into military prison, and then spent the last bunch of years shooting people for money.”

 

May, lifting her second shot to her lips, pauses. “And SHIELD brought you in instead of killing you?” Clint shrugs, and May raises her eyebrows for real. “Why?”

 

“I only shot bad people,” he says, which is true enough. “Coulson said that I crossed a few people off SHIELD’s hit list for them, saved the US government some money.” He takes his next shot, does wince this time, and puts the glass down. “He tailed me for a few years before I caved.”

 

“Why did you?” she asks, downing her drink. “Cave?”

 

Clint toys with his next glass. Somehow, _I was worried that eventually they’d put a bullet in my head and my kid would grow up without a father_ doesn’t seem like the right answer. “I had a flag on my shoulder once,” he says slowly. He puts the glass down, looking at her. “I spent a long time thinking that that guy, the one who could go out and fight for his country, was dead and gone. SHIELD gave me a chance to be that guy again. To be someone I can be proud of.”

 

It’s truer than he really expects it to be, but he realizes as he says the words that it’s not about him being proud of himself. As much time as he spends telling Natasha that she can wash away her sins, part of him will always know that Natasha was brainwashed into doing the horrible things she did. He might have fallen in with bad people, but everything he’s done, he did of his own free will. He can’t wash the red out of his life, but if he can become someone that Cooper can look up to, maybe that’s good enough.

 

Something softens in May’s eyes, though she doesn’t say anything. Clint tilts his head to one side. “That enough backstory for you?”

 

Her lips curve in a smile. “That’ll do,” she says, picking up her glass and extending it.

 

Clint clinks his gently against hers, and they knock the shots back. “So,” Clint says, when he’s swallowed down the urge to cough. Next time, he’s ordering. This whiskey is awful. “Tit for tat, May. Give me something about you.”

 

May eyes him for a moment, and then shrugs one shoulder. “I used to be a figure skater,” she says.

 

“No shit,” Clint says, leaning forward with a grin. “This I’ve gotta hear.”

 

After that, working with May gets a little more comfortable. He’s not going to tell her everything, but someday, he thinks, he might.

 

The last week of his orientation period, just days before he’s due to get on a plane back to Iowa, Coulson comes into the range. “Agent Barton,” he says. “You’ve got an appointment with records.”

 

He says it simply, quietly. Clint doesn’t need him to say anything more. He packs up his bow, checks the bow case and quiver back in with the armory, and follows Coulson down into the bowels of the Triskelion. Coulson scans his access card and palm against an access panel on a door in the archives, and the door slides aside to reveal a small, dark room with a computer terminal. “This is the central terminal,” Coulson tells him. He reaches into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a piece of paper. “This is a full access username and password, no restrictions,” he says, holding it out to Clint. “You see what Fury sees. It’ll expire one hour after being activated. So you’d better be thorough.”

 

Clint takes it. “And no one’s going to be tracking what I wipe out?” he asks, still suspicious.

 

Coulson nods. “You have Fury’s word on that.”

 

Clint doesn’t waver. “And what’s Fury’s word worth?”

 

Coulson holds his gaze, steady. “He’s told me that you can shoot him if he crosses you.”

 

“Sounds good to me.” Clint raises an eyebrow. “You gonna babysit me, Coulson?”

 

“I’ll be right outside the door.” Coulson moves towards the entrance, and then pauses. “You’re sure you feel you need to do this?”

 

“More than sure.” Clint grins at him. “Don’t worry, Phil. I’m not gonna compromise national security.”

 

Coulson snorts. “You know, I kind of wish your first time using my first name didn’t make me so uneasy,” he says, but he leaves all the same, the door sliding shut behind him.

 

Clint waits until he hears the click of the electronic lock before logging into the terminal.

 

He starts with his own personnel file, reading through it carefully. He’s not sure what’s been redacted in the copies that other agents can see, but he’s willing to bet it’s a good deal of it, if May’s comments were any indication. He deletes a couple lines of it anyway, just to be on the safe side. No need for SHIELD to have too many records of his shitty childhood.

 

He goes into the public documents database next. He leaves his own birth certificate, because he just doesn’t care that much, but he deletes the electronic copy of Cooper’s, as well as his and Laura’s marriage license. They’ve got paper copies stashed in multiple safe deposit boxes in multiple countries; they’ll have them if the need them. He checks tax records just to cover his bases, but he and Laura have been filing separately, and his name’s not listed on any of her documents, and she claims Cooper as a dependent. He uploads a picture of Laura from his phone and runs it against SHIELD’s facial recognition software, and sighs in relief when the only things that comes up are her passport and driver’s license photos. SHIELD doesn’t have her anywhere else in their system.

 

 

Now for the hard part.

 

Pulling up a search bar, he types in every possible iteration of Natasha’s name. It doesn’t surprise him for a moment that SHIELD has a file on her under _Romanova, Natalia/Black Widow_ , and he scans it carefully, deleting any information that connects her to the much, much larger _Black Widow_ file collection prior to 2000. There are more connections than he’s happy to see, but the notes in the file seem to indicate that maybe the name has been passed down like the shared title, since there are records of kills attributed to the Black Widow program going back as far as the 40s.

 

Clint leaves that note, but he erases the mentions anyway. If they are tracking her, let them think she’s young and advanced. It’s true enough; the serum in her veins, an attempt at replicating the serum used on Captain America, keeps her looking nearly as young as she had when Clint had first met her. He adds a birth date to her file, November 22nd (the day she killed her Red Room handlers; he thinks she’ll get a kick out of that), and picks 1984 as a year after trying to calculate approximately how old she looks.

 

There are, he’s pleased to see, no actual photos of her in the database. Good girl, Nat, he thinks with a grin.

 

He checks for any connection between Natasha’s name and his. There’s only one, a brief footnote in Natasha’s file that mentions one of the victims in a job she’d done found with an arrow to the heart. Clint winces. Sloppy work, Barton, he thinks, deleting the note. He runs a second search to be sure, and nothing comes up. He nods in satisfaction, leaning back in the chair.

 

A glance at the timer on his phone lets him know that he has another six minutes left. Clint rocks thoughtfully in the chair. He could, he knows, close out early, let Coulson know he’s finished.

 

Or…

 

“Yeah, fuck that,” he thinks, and runs a search for Area 51. He’s got time to check records on every conspiracy theory he’s ever heard. Like he’s going to miss out on that.

 

**2015**

 

Wanda, it turned out, liked children _very_ much, and appointed herself in charge of Cooper and Lila for the rest of the morning, much to Laura’s amusement and surprise. She let Lila play with her hair during breakfast, and when the dishes were done, allowed the two of them to pull her upstairs to the craft-and-play room that had become her bedroom.

 

“I really don’t mind,” she told Laura, as Lila attempted to drag her upstairs by the hand, happily chattering about all of the different things they could draw.

 

Laura eyed her, bouncing Nathaniel in her arms in an attempt to settle him down into a nap. “Well, if they get to be too much, just send them back downstairs, or give us a yell and we’ll get them out of your hair.”

 

Wanda nodded agreeably and followed Lila up the stairs, and Laura shook her head, wandering back into the kitchen. “How about that?” she asked, sitting back down at the table as Nate dozed against her shoulder. “I can’t say I expected her to be so…” She trailed off, looking for the right words, and glanced at Natasha.

 

“Content to get pulled into playtime?” Natasha suggested from her place by the counter, wrapping the leftover pancakes in paper towels and slipping them into freezer-safe bags. “I agree. I thought she’d be more uncomfortable.”

 

“I didn’t,” Clint said, washing the dishes.

 

Laura peered at him to see if he was just being difficult, but his face was calm, confident. “Really,” she said.

 

He shrugged, soaping up a sponge and applying it to crisped chocolate chips with gusto. “She grew up in a place that was torn up by war,” he said, scrubbing easily. “Probably traumatized out of her mind, along with all the other kids she knew. When that’s your reality, any time you get to spend with normal, happy kids is worth all the yelling and sticky fingers and glitter in your hair.”

 

Laura felt a lump in her throat, and swallowed it down, glancing sidelong at Natasha. Nat’s expression was unreadable, but she was looking at Clint, too, and Laura could see the emotions flickering in her eyes despite the blank look on her face. “Clint,” she said slowly.

 

Clint glanced at her, and then did a double-take, rolling his eyes. “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he said. “You know I hate the let’s-compare-childhood-traumas face, Nat.”

 

Natasha’s expression shifted immediately into annoyance. “I’m _not_ ,” she said, and sounded so put out that Laura snorted into her coffee. “Laura!”

 

“What?” Laura asked, blinking innocently at her.

 

“I don’t have a... _that_ face,” Natasha grumbled, pressing one of the bags closed with rather more vigor than seemed strictly necessary. “And even if I did, Clint, I was only going to say that you sounded like you were talking from experience.”

 

Clint made a face at her, but he turned off the sink with one elbow, putting the clean pan into the dish drainer. He grabbed a towel from the oven hook and dried his hands, leaning against the counter. “It was one of the things that made the circus worth it,” he said, not really looking at either of them. “All those kids who would come with their parents, and they all just looked so damn happy and excited, you know? And you’d look at them and they wouldn’t have circles under their eyes or bruises anywhere and they didn’t move around like they were in pain, and it was just…” He shrugged. “Barney and I used to talk about it, when we joined. He started learning how to make those stupid balloon animals just because it made the kids so happy. Used to tell me that if he could remember how to make kids smile like that, maybe it would keep him from turning out like Dad.”

 

He glanced down at his hands, half-wrapped in the towel, and put the towel down, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I think we both knew we had violence in us even then,” he admitted, turning his head to look out the window, and Laura found herself struck by the age she could see in his eyes sometimes, the strength in his jawline that belied a lifetime of pain and exhaustion. “We were already fighting against it. And then just trying to use it for something worthwhile, when we realized there was no getting rid of it. We had it in our blood.”

 

Natasha made a soft, pained sound. “You’ve never hurt a child in your life, Clint,” she said quietly. “Not when you had a choice.”

 

Clint snorted. “Not the same thing, Nat.”

 

His eyes were stormy, and Laura climbed to her feet, slipping around the table and holding the baby out to him. “Take him for a little while, will you?” she said. “My arms are getting tired.”

 

She placed Nate in his arms and his expression transformed instantly, the stress and tension bleeding out of his shoulders as he curled an arm around their son, looking down at him with softness and care. Nate fussed a bit as he was passed from one parent to the other, waving his small fists around, and Clint hushed him gently, bending his head to kiss his nose. “Easy, buddy,” he murmured, swaying with him, and Nate quieted, curling one fist around Clint’s offered index finger. He glanced up at Laura. “I’ll take him outside for a bit,” he said. “Give him a little fresh air. Let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

 

Laura nodded, tiptoeing up to kiss his cheek, and Clint gave her a soft smile, Natasha a playful wink, and headed for the door. Laura watched him go, leaning comfortably against the counter, and managed not to start when Natasha’s hand settled gently against the small of her back. She glanced at the other woman to find a knowing smile curving her lips.

 

“You always seem to know what to do,” she said, looking almost wistful. Laura shrugged.

 

“You know how he gets when he’s trudging down memory lane,” she said, reaching back to pull Natasha’s hand into hers. “It’s always been his biggest fear, that he’d turn into his dad. I’ve just found that there’s nothing like putting a baby in his arms to get him out of that headspace.” She shook her head fondly. “It’s too bad Cooper’s too big for me to plop into his lap anymore. It would make things a lot easier.”

 

Natasha laughed. “I don’t know if Cooper would agree with you.”

 

Laura sniffed. “I’m his mother,” she said. “He doesn’t have to agree with me, he just has to do what I tell him. And what you tell him.” She winked. “As long as we’ve already collaborated to make sure we tell him the same things.”

 

Natasha shook her head. “It’s a wonder the kid’s not in therapy already.” She paused. “Anymore, I should say.”

 

Laura hummed her agreement. Cooper had spent a few months with a SHIELD-vetted child therapist after the Battle of New York, after he’d spent weeks waking up in the middle of the night, terrified that aliens were going to come and take his daddy away. The therapist had been a calm, friendly woman that Laura had liked instantly, and liked even more when she’d quietly confided in Laura that despite Cooper’s somewhat specialized circumstances, he wasn’t at all the only child who had been suffering from fear and anxiety after the aliens had descended on Manhattan. “Believe it or not, I think spending the first few years of his life in a rather non-traditional family is probably the least traumatizing part of that kid’s life. Why worry about having two moms and a dad when there are aliens afoot?”

 

“Fair enough.” Natasha glanced up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of Lila’s laughter, echoed softly by Wanda’s, filtering down from upstairs. “What about Lila?”

 

“She was too young to really understand much after New York,” Laura said, pouring herself a new mug of coffee. She held up the carafe for Natasha, and Natasha nodded, handing over her own mug. Laura refilled it for her, replacing the carafe with a shrug. “She had some nightmares after Sokovia, but that wasn’t anything like what happened to Clint in New York.”

 

Natasha nodded. “Not as personal,” she agreed. “And Cooper’s always been more sensitive.” She looked hesitant for a moment, her hands curled around her mug. “I got angry at Clint last night,” she said quietly. “Did he tell you?”

 

The change of subject took Laura a bit by surprise, but she nodded. “Sort of,” she said carefully. “He mentioned that you two had a tough conversation, but he didn’t think you were angry.”

 

“Maybe angry isn’t quite the right word.” Natasha looked out the window, and Laura followed her gaze to Clint, sitting in the rocking chair with Nate in his arms. “He had the baby with him, and he was just so...I don’t know, possessive, and I just felt left out of it.” She shook her head. “I know Nate isn’t mine,” she said, her gaze dropping down into her coffee mug. “Not the way that Cooper was. But something about the way he talked about Nate, the way he was holding him, I just felt like you two are really…”

 

She trailed off, and Laura touched her arm. “Natasha,” she said softly, not pressing, but inviting. Natasha glanced up at her.

 

“It was just a reminder that you two are a family without me,” she said. “You keep inviting me back, and I know, I _know_ how hard it’s been for you to keep giving me a chance to choose you and I keep wavering, I know that’s my fault, but it’s just…” She swallowed visibly, looking at Laura. “You two and the kids, you’re the core of the family. I know there’s a space for me, but I’m not needed here, not the way you two are.”

 

Laura felt her lips tense, and had to school herself to calmness, to keep herself from grabbing Natasha by the shoulders and _shaking_ her. She counted carefully down from ten, and put her mug down, reaching out for Natasha’s hand. “You are always,” she said quietly, “ _always_ needed here.”

 

She could say more, she knew, could come up with a lengthy itemized list of all the reasons Natasha was as much a part of this family as her or Clint or any of the babies, regardless of legality or genetics. But she knew Natasha, and knew that tone and feeling meant more than words any day of the week, so she kept it simple, kept her gaze on Natasha’s, and didn’t let her look away.

 

In the end, Natasha’s hand curled around hers. She didn’t speak, but they stood side by side together, listening to the children laughing upstairs, their easy playfulness helping to put a broken girl back together. Natasha didn’t loosen her grip on Laura’s hand, and Laura counted that as the blessing it was.

 

**2007**

 

Clint working for SHIELD takes some getting used to. Natasha’s never had a normal job--outside of a con, anyway--and she’s completely bemused when he comes home from his “orientation” with a giant folder of papers. (“Laura,” he says, helpless, “they gave me something called a W-4. What the hell is a W-4?”) He goes on jobs that take anywhere from a day to a week, which isn’t anything they’re not used to, but now he’s on ops with a team she doesn’t know, a partner she’s never met.

 

She doesn’t like it.

 

“You worry too much,” Clint tells her when he comes home from a job in Myanmar, bruising over the entire right side of his body. He’s at the kitchen table, bouncing a delighted Cooper on his lap and making faces at him. All of his worries about Cooper not recognizing have turned out to be completely unfounded; Cooper spends every night that Clint’s gone asking for “dada” when he’s tucked into bed, and lights up like a sunbeam when Clint comes home.

 

Natasha crosses her arms over her chest. “You got hit by a car, Clint,” she says flatly. “I’m worrying _just_ the right amount.”

 

“She has a point, love,” Laura says quietly, washing the dinner dishes at the sink. She’d gone pale when Clint walked (limped) through the door, despite his insistence that the marks were just deep bruises. Natasha, who’s seen Clint bleeding out more times than she cares to count, can’t blame her. He looks awful. “Are you sure these people have your safety in mind?”

 

“Of course they do,” Clint says, almost defensively. “If they wanted to kill me, Laura, they had plenty of opportunities, and they could have done it without setting me up a 401k. I still don’t even understand what that _is_.”

 

Laura sighs. “It’s a retirement thing, Clint.”

 

“So is a Swiss bank account,” Natasha says dryly.

 

“Look,” Clint says. “I know my limits. I’m ever in _actual_ danger, and I pull out, first thing. Okay?” He looks at them, one hand resting gently on the crown of Cooper’s head, and his eyes go soft. “I know where my real responsibilities are,” he says. “I promise.”

 

Natasha believes him. She does. But she still doesn’t have to like it.

 

More than that, it means no more jobs together--they can’t risk being seen together. Clint’s promised her that SHIELD doesn’t have anything much on her, but they have her name, and eventually they’ll manage to get her face. It’s only a matter of time, and there’s no way that Natasha’s willing to chance them being connected.

 

It’s been a long time since they did most of their jobs together anyway; since Laura, they’ve been splitting up most of the time, since Cooper, even more so. Still, Natasha misses it. She misses having Clint at her back, of being the person at his. She misses the comfort of his voice in her ear, of knowing his movements and his habits inside and out. She misses the security of knowing that as long as she’s watching him, he’ll get out alive.

 

But most of all, she misses knowing that when he’s there, he’ll keep her honest.

 

Nikolai Drakov has ties to the Russian mob, involved in the kind of black market dealings that make even Natasha’s very experienced stomach churn. Human trafficking, underground dealing in Holocaust art, drug trafficking, arms dealing, child pornography--and that’s just the first two pages of his Interpol file.

 

The hit on Drakov comes from the Solntsevskaya Brotherhood, and normally Natasha wouldn’t take jobs from them, but Drakov makes her skin crawl, and she wants to end him _personally_.

 

“Are you sure this is a job you want, Natalia Romanova?” Mogilevich asks, swirling liquor around his glass at the table they share in the tiny, elite Moscow restaurant. “You have a reputation for...precision. This is not a job that we would like to see done in a _precise_ manner.”

 

Natasha curls manicured fingers around her own glass. She’s in a dark dress that falls over her in silk folds, all luxury and grace, diamonds shimmering at her neck and wrists, and despite all of it, she finds herself longing for one of Laura’s oversized cream sweaters. “Semion,” she says smoothly. “I know when precision is called for, and I know when it is not. You know where I received my training, and you know that I know how to provide pain, very effectively.” She raises her eyebrows. “You do wish for him to suffer, yes?”

 

“Nikolai Drakov betrayed the Brotherhood,” Mogilevich says flatly. “I wish for his death to send a message. That betrayal will not be tolerated.”

 

Natasha smiles. “I believe that is a message I know how to send.”

 

They negotiate terms and payment, and Natasha exchanges the numbers of her bank account for a card with Drakov’s address. She stands to go, the silk of her skirts rustling around her ankles, and slips the card into the bodice of her dress. “Half in advance,” she says. “And I will be in touch when the job is done.”

 

Mogilevich inclines his head, and she turns away, narrowing her eyes at his personal security until they step clear of her path.

 

“Natalia Romanova.”

 

She pauses, looking back over her shoulder. Mogilevich’s expression is cool. “There will not be witnesses,” he says. “At all.”

 

Natasha arches one eyebrow. “I do not leave witnesses,” she says calmly, and leaves the restaurant.

 

A week later, she slips through the window of Drakov’s bedroom. It’s soundproofed, for the sort of reasons that make her skin crawl, but for tonight it works in her favor, to keep the screams she knows are sure to come from waking the neighborhood.

 

She slips along the walls of the room on silent feet, easily disabling the cameras in the corners of the room. She doesn’t know if they’re intended for security or private pornography, but she doesn’t care, either--there won’t be any footage of tonight. The camera feeds cut, she pads to the side of the bed, kneeling down and pressing one hand to Drakov’s mouth.

 

His eyes snap open, flashing wide on hers and focusing quickly in the semi-darkness, and Natasha smiles like a knife. “Shh,” she purrs, and feels him smile against her hand. “I would not want for you to spoil your surprise.”

 

She moves her hand from his mouth, and Drakov’s sharp, handsome features are calculating and smooth as he looks up at her. “Are you a present?” he asks, his voice low and dripping with what’s likely intended to be seduction. Natasha nods, smiling, and Drakov’s lips curl. “My friends are too kind.”

 

“Yes,” she says. “Especially Semion Mogilevich.”

 

The color drains from his face. He opens his mouth to scream, and she uses the motion to stuff in the gag.

 

She’s never enjoyed the sound of screaming. It distracts her from her work.

 

Drakov dies slow, and he dies painful, but before that, Natasha ensures that he suffers. She wears black on any job like this and she’s grateful for it now, as it hides the blood that splatters against her as she takes him apart, one piece at a time. She is thorough and careful, drawing on the Red Room lessons she usually pushes away from her mind, allowing herself to fall into the headspace of her days as a real Black Widow, applying pain with exacting, practiced motions.

 

Just like riding a bicycle, Natasha thinks, and smiles as she slides a knife along the sole of his foot. Drakov, bound and gagged, jerks and sobs behind his gag, and she feels her smile grow.

 

A message Mogilevich had wanted, and a message he will receive.

 

She gets bored before the pain kills him, and it’s that, more than anything else, that makes her end it. “You deserved worse,” she tells one of the holes where his ears had been, and slits his throat with one quick, easy movement.

 

Drakov chokes, and Drakov shudders, and Drakov dies.

 

Natasha rises to her feet, surveying the carnage of the room. She has kept the mess to the bed, blood and gore soaking deep into the Egyptian cotton sheets, and Natasha carefully ensures that no stray drops have clung to the soles of her boots, leaving the kind of footprints that could trace her exit along the plush white carpet.

 

Clean, of course. She hasn’t lost her touch.

 

She moves toward the window, footsteps silent on the carpet, and has a hand on the latch when she hears the creak of the doorknob and freezes. She’d chosen tonight because no one else should have been in the house. Someone else sent in, maybe, to do the same job? She wouldn’t put it past Mogilevich to cover his bases…Silently, she pulls a knife from the sheath at her back, and crosses the room, pulling open the door as the knob turns.

 

A small girl in a white nightgown stands in the hallway, her hair mussed from sleep, a teddy bear dangling from one arm. Natasha’s stomach drops. Amalya Drakova, Drakov’s eight-year-old daughter, should have been at her mother’s house on the other side of the city.

 

 _No witnesses_ , she hears Mogilevich say.

 

“Who are you?” Amalya asks, blinking up at her. “Are you one of Papa’s girls?”

 

Natasha swallows. “Yes,” she says. “Your papa is asleep. What do you need?”

 

“I had a bad dream.” Amalya hugs her bear. “Can Papa take me back to bed and tuck me in?”

 

 _No witnesses_. “I’m afraid not, sweetheart.” Natasha steps out of the room, closing the door behind her and setting a gentle hand on the child’s shoulder. “I’ll take you back to bed, all right?”

 

Amalya looks uncertain. After a moment, though, she nods, and turns to go down the hallway. Natasha follows her, reaching into the pouch sewn into her thigh holster to withdraw the tiny syringe she keeps there for emergencies. The toxin of a poison dart frog will kill in minutes, nearly painlessly. It’s an emergency backup that she keeps for herself, in the event of a capture that would be worse than death.

 

She swallows. She never meant to use it for something like this.

 

But Semion Mogilevich is a powerful man, one even Natasha won’t dare cross. He has long arms, and she has a family to protect.

 

Amalya leads the way to her own bedroom at the end of the hall, a quaint space slightly illuminated by a nightlight in the corner. She climbs into the bed, and Natasha tucks the blankets around her, carefully angling the syringe against the inside of her wrist to keep it from view. “There you are,” Natasha says, sitting down on the side of the bed. “How’s that?”

 

“Good,” Amalya says, hugging her bear close. “I like you,” she says, a little sleepily, her eyes drifting to half-mast. “I hope Papa keeps you.”

 

“I’m glad,” Natasha says, hating herself. She curls her empty hand over the child’s cheek. “Close your eyes now, darling.”

 

Amalya’s eyes flutter closed, and Natasha slides the needle into the side of her neck, depressing the plunger in one swift motion.

 

The dose in the syringe is five times what’s needed to kill a grown man in under three minutes.

 

On a child, it is nearly instantaneous. Amalya pulls in a gasp, shudders once, goes rigid, and then goes limp. Her arm, curled around her bear, falls flat against the bedclothes.

 

Natasha eases the needle from her neck and wipes the single drop of blood away with her thumb. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers, resting the back of her hand against Drakov’s daughter’s cheek. “But I have a child of my own to protect.”

 

She leaves Drakov’s house the same way she entered, sliding the window shut behind her and scaling her way to the next rooftop before taking out her phone. “It’s done,” she tells Mogilevich’s representative when he answers. “Put the rest of the money in my account.”

 

Not waiting for a response, she hangs up, and catches the next flight back to the States.

 

Laura greets her at the door with a tight hug, and pulls away with a worried look when Natasha doesn’t return it. “What’s wrong?” she asks, putting one hand against Natasha’s cheek. “Are you hurt?”

 

“No.” Natasha swallows hard. She can’t handle Laura’s earnest, unconditional love just yet. She’d told Clint over text message from the airport in Moscow, and his response had been a simple, honest, _you did what you had to do._ She knows it’s true, but she hates herself anyway. “I just...I need to be alone for a little while.”

 

“Of course.” Laura kisses her cheek. “Cooper’s in the living room,” she says. “Just so you know.”

 

Natasha nods. “I’ll say hello,” she says. She puts her duffle down by the door and leaves Laura with a brush of her fingers over her wife’s hand, her boots creaking on the old floorboards of the farm as she makes her way to the living room.

 

She can make her presence known here. She is Natasha at home, not a silent assassin.

 

Cooper looks up at her in delight as she comes into view, climbing to his feet. “Mama Tassa!” he squeals, and toddles happily over to her. She bends and sweeps him into her arms, crushing him a little closer than she normally would and burying her face into his neck even as he wraps his arms around her neck and plants wet, sticky kisses against her cheek.

 

“I missed you so much, my heart,” she whispers against his skin.

 

He starts to squirm after a few moments, impatient with the length of the hug, and she puts him down, letting him go back to the stuffed animals he’s arranged into a line. Natasha sits down on the couch to watch him, trying to keep her mind in the present moment, but keeps finding her thoughts drawn back to that bedroom in Moscow, to a limp arm half-curled around a worn, well-loved teddy bear.

 

Her vision blurs. She hates jobs without Clint.

 

“Mama Tassa?”

 

She looks up. Cooper is standing in front of her, looking up at her with Laura’s dark eyes and Clint’s furrowed brow. “I’m sorry, darling,” she says, wiping her eyes. “Did you say something?”

 

Cooper holds out his arms, clearly wanting to be picked up, and she lifts him into her lap. He gives her a long, serious look. “Mama Tassa sad?” he asks.

 

Her heart clenches, with love at the way he calls her _mama_ and pride at his continuously exploding vocabulary. “Yes, love,” she says, tilting her head down against his. “Mama Tasha is sad.”

 

Cooper looks at her a moment longer, and then wriggles his way out of her lap again, toddling back across the room. He sorts through the line of stuffed animals and comes up with Mookey, his favorite stuffed monkey. He picks it up and brings it back to the couch, offering it up to her. “Mookey help,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact, a toddler’s certainty.

 

Natasha’s eyes sting, and she bends down and takes Mookey from him. Cooper takes her arms and guides them around the monkey’s little plush body in a hug, and then leans forward and places a wet, smacking kiss on her cheek. “All better,” he declares, beaming at her with Clint’s smile. Natasha can’t help but smile back, pulling him into her lap again and tickling his belly until he squeals.

 

His laughter doesn’t take away the guilt, but it eases it. This is what she has to protect, and she’ll do whatever it takes to keep it safe.

 

**2015**

 

Michael came inside in the early afternoon for a break and a drink, plopping down at the table with a glass of Laura’s lemonade in his hand. “Your kids,” he told Clint flatly, “are exhausting. I do this job literally every day, but somehow doing it after chasing your spawn around is a whole different ballgame.” He glanced at Natasha. “When did you get back?”

 

“Hi to you, too,” Natasha said dryly.

 

Clint shook his head, sipping his coffee. Mike was the only one of Laura’s siblings who had known Natasha’s real relationship with Clint and Laura, and he’d never quite forgiven her for leaving. It was always a little amusing to watch him struggle to balance his ongoing resentment with the fact that he found her, as he’d once told Clint, obnoxiously likeable as a person, if a little bit terrifying. “Kids,” he said. “Play nice.”

 

“We are playing nice,” Mike said. “I’m just making conversation.”

 

“She came in a little over a week ago,” Laura said from the kitchen, pouring herself a cup of tea. “She’s staying for a bit to get a break from Avenging.”

 

Mike nodded. “Seems fair,” he said. “Thanks for saving the world, by the way.”

 

Natasha snorted. “You’re welcome.”

 

Mike drained his glass of lemonade and held out his arms. “Right,” he said decisively. “Gimme that baby nephew of mine.”

 

“Wash your hands first,” Laura said. “You’re filthy.”

 

“Yes, mom,” he said, rolling his eyes and getting to his feet, shuffling past Laura to the sink and artfully dodging the towel she thwacked against his back. “You know, dirt is good for kids. It helps them build immune systems.” He looked over his shoulder at Clint. “Back me up here, brother.”

 

Clint nearly choked on his next sip of coffee. He put the mug down, coughing as he adjusted Nate in his other arm to keep from jostling him too much. “Hell, no,” he said. “I’m not getting between you and Laura. How stupid do I look?”

 

Mike grinned wickedly at him, and Clint flipped him off. “Children,” Laura said warningly, and Mike snickered, walking back to the table and holding out his much-cleaner hands. Clint passed Nate over, one hand cupped over his head to guide him, and Mike flopped back into his chair.

 

“So,” he said, looking at Natasha. “Are you back? Or like... _back_ back?”

 

“Back,” Natasha said, but she said it slowly enough that Mike raised his eyebrows. Clint pursed his lips together to hold back a smile. Seeing Laura’s facial expressions on Mike’s face never failed to make him grin.

 

“This is probably the safest house anywhere in the state right now, with three Avengers under one roof,” Laura said, coming back to the table with two mugs of tea, passing one to Natasha. She peered at the Scrabble board sitting on the table. “Where did you go?”

 

Natasha pointed, and Laura made a face, sitting down and looking at her own rack of tiles. “Wait,” Mike said. “Three Avengers? Do you have Thor hiding around somewhere?”

 

Clint snorted. “You can’t hide Thor,” he said. “He’s huge. And loud.”

 

“We have one of the new recruits staying for a bit,” Laura said, still studying the board. “Wanda Maximoff.”

 

Mike looked intrigued. “The girl with the weird powers? I saw her on the news. Cool stuff.” He nudged Clint slyly. “Thinking of adding another wife?” He made a bitten-off sound of pain. “Ow!”

 

Laura gave him a serene look from.  “Careful,” she said mildly, as if she hadn’t clearly kicked him under the table. “The Avengers in the house aren’t the only dangerous ones.”

 

“Also, she’s like, twenty,” Clint said. “I could be her father.” He stopped, and then groaned, tilting his head back against the back of his chair as the realization actually hit him. “Oh my god,” he said. “We’re old.”

 

“Speak for yourself,” Laura said, looking like she’d rather like to kick Clint as well. Clint tried to look pathetic, and she rolled her eyes. “Don’t give me that look, you know exactly how old you are.”

 

“Yeah, but it sucks a lot more when I put it in comparison,” he complained. He glanced at Nat. “Is this how you feel all the time?”

 

She arched an eyebrow. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she said. He made a face at her, and she reached over, ruffling his hair fondly. “Relax, Hawkeye,” she said affectionately. “You’re not that decrepit yet. You’ve got plenty of time to train an apprentice.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Clint grumbled. “There’s a rich heiress in New York making some waves with a bow, maybe I’ll recruit her.”

 

“Her jokes can’t be worse than yours,” Natasha offered sweetly. “Maybe you can even persuade her to keep the purple tradition.”

 

“You’re the worst, and I don’t know why I love you,” he told her. He looked pleadingly at Laura. “You like my jokes, right?”

 

“You are often very witty,” Laura said carefully. “But you also have a very...dad-ish sense of humor.”

 

Mike grinned. “She means you use dad voice. A lot.”

 

“Screw you, dude, dad voice has helped me get rookie SHIELD agents out of plenty of missions all in one piece,” he said.

 

“And then you make sure that they wear their jackets and tie their shoes properly?” Mike suggested innocently.

 

“I hate all of you,” Clint announced, getting to his feet. He held out his arms, wiggling his fingers. “Come on, give me my baby, I’m out of here.”

 

Mike laughed, but passed Nate over anyway. Nate grabbed at a loose thread on Clint’s flannel and crowed delightedly at the discovery. “Where are you going?” Laura asked, looking amused.

 

“I’m going to see if the rest of our spawn have scared Wanda back to New York yet,” he said dryly. “And to try and convince them to get a bit of fresh air. And of course bore them to death with my dad jokes.”

 

“Aw, honey,” Laura cooed. “You know we love you.”

 

“I am not convinced,” he said. She tilted her head back and pursed her lips at him, and he rolled his eyes, dropping a kiss onto her lips.

 

“Gross,” Mike said.

 

Clint tugged on one of his dark curls. “Grow up,” he said, and ruffled Natasha’s hair a bit more affectionately as he headed for the stairs, making his way upstairs.

 

He could hear Cooper’s voice as he hit the second floor landing, though not clear enough to make it out, as well as the soft sounds of Lila’s laughing. He tapped on the half-open door to the kids’ playroom. “Hey, monkeys,” he said, leaning against the door frame. “Are you being good for Wanda?”

 

Wanda looked up at him, her smile bright and genuine. “Lila has been showing me her watercolors,” she says, gesturing to the craft table. “We have been making pictures.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Clint shifted Nate into one arm and headed into the room, looking down at the table as Lila held up her latest picture for him to see. It was clearly a picture of Wanda riding a unicorn. He grinned. “Gorgeous,” he said. “You’ve got your mama’s talent.” He glanced at Cooper, reading a book on the bed, and cocked an eyebrow. “Not doing arts and crafts today?”

 

Cooper shook his head. “I’m reading Wanda _Trumpet of the Swan_ ,” he said, a little proudly--and for good reason, Clint thought, the book was a bit above his grade level. Thank God he had Laura’s brains, not Clint’s.

 

“It’s very interesting,” Wanda said. “The father swan is very talkative. I think he does not always think before he speaks.”

 

“Like Daddy,” Lila said, giggling.

 

Clint tweaked one of her braids and looked down at the table again. “What about you, Maximoff? Any artistic achievements?”

 

Wanda gave him a wry smile that put Clint in mind of Natasha, but angled her picture toward him. It was a slightly sloppy, but clearly recognizable, picture of a rather chubby baby, wearing a blue and white onesie, blazoned with a smiling face with a shock of silver hair. Clint swallowed, putting his free hand on her shoulder. “Beautiful,” he said, and meant it. “Fridge material for sure.”

 

Her smile softened. “I thought maybe for the baby’s room.” There was a bulletin board in the nursery, already covered in pictures that Lila and Cooper had drawn, as well as cards from friends and family printouts of Laura’s ultrasounds, Laura, Clint, and Nate’s hospital bracelets, and a print of Nate’s newborn feet.

 

The board was crowded, but Clint smiled. “We’ll find room,” he said, and Wanda smiled.

 

**2007**

 

Laura leaves the PTA meeting later than she intended, walking out of the school with Donna, one of the special education teachers.

 

“I may actually murder Patricia Lewis,” Donna says as they make their way to the parking lot. “What is with her and those poinsettia fundraisers? How many times do we have to tell her that they’re awful?”

 

“I guess they worked in other years,” Laura says, glancing at her watch. God, it’s late. She hopes Clint and Natasha got Cooper into bed at a normal time. She’ll have to sneak in to kiss him tonight. She can’t stand PTA meetings, really, but she knows it’s important for networking, and someday she’ll be on both sides of the equation, so she might as well get used to it. Heavens knows Clint and Natasha won’t go.

 

She pictures Clint setting through the _Mean Girls_ -esque clusterfuck she just endured, and snorts despite herself. Donna glances at her. “Laura?”

 

Laura shakes her head, suppressing a giggle. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m picturing my husband going to one of those.”

 

Donna grins. “I tried to get Pat to go to one. He made it fifteen minutes and started twitching. Although that might have been because he raided the free brownie table.”

 

“That might be a decent lure,” Laura says thoughtfully.

 

They reach the staff parking lot and Donna pauses by her car. “Do you want to come out to get a drink with some of the girls?”

 

Laura feigns a gasp. “On a school night? Donna Murphy!”

 

Donna laughs. “We live on the edge here,” she says, winking. “What do you say?”

 

Laura smiles, shaking her head. “Thanks for the offer, but I have to get home to try and sneak a kiss from the baby before he’s out cold for the night.”

 

“Fair enough.” Donna unlocks her car and tosses her purse inside. “Say hi to that hot husband of yours for me.”

 

Laura snorts. “You got it. Don’t stay out too late, now.” Donna chuckles and waves, sliding into her car, and Laura waves back, amused, before walking to her own car.

 

It’s a short drive from school out to the farm, but Laura lets herself enjoy the quiet anyway, turning the radio to static and listening to the quiet white noise as the cold fall air whistles through the cracked windows and stirs her hair. She’s been working at the school for a bit over a year now and she loves it, despite the long days and the monthly PTA drama. For all that she’d expected Iowa kids to be utterly different from New York kids, they’re more similar than she’d thought. She sees the same creativity, the same light, the same joy in learning, and in some of them she sees some of the same shadows, too, the same hesitance and distrust of adults.

 

The difference, now, is that she knows what to do when she sees it. She treats those students gently and calmly, gives them her attention, focuses when they talk, offers her help and support.

 

Some of her students from last year still come by her classroom in their free periods to show her drawings or to use an easel. Each time it happens, her heart swells with warmth.

 

The farm is mostly dark when she pulls up the gravel driveway, only a few lights on downstairs. Strange, unfamiliar noises cut through the night air as her engine dies away and Laura freezes as she climbs out of the car, listening. She can hear grunting that sounds vaguely familiar--Clint, she realizes, terror flooding through her veins--and the unmistakable sound of skin striking skin. She stands near her car, half-frozen in fear, wondering if she should fumble through her purse for the modified pepper spray from Natasha that she’s been carrying for almost six years, or just run inside and try to get Cooper, or get back into the car and go for help--

 

The noise of fighting stops. “Laura?” Clint calls. “That you, babe?”

 

His voice sounds breathless and a little pained, but calm. Laura frowns, bewildered. “Clint?” She leaves her car, still clutching at her bag, and hurries across the driveway to the lit porch. She can’t see him, and feels another curl of fear. “Where are you?”

 

“Down here.” She pads around the corner of the porch to the side of the house, where Clint, barely illuminated by the front lights, peers up at her from the grass, a slightly sweaty, winded Natasha by his side. He grins at her. “How was PTA?”

 

“PTA was fine,” she says, trying to figure out what’s going on. “Are you okay? Why are you out here? Where’s Cooper?”

 

The questions flood out of her in a panicked rush and Clint reaches up through the porch slats to take her hand and squeeze it. “Everything’s fine,” he says. “We just came out here to spar a bit, let off some steam. Cooper’s asleep in his crib, the baby monitor’s down here with our water bottles. He talked to himself for awhile and then passed out about fifteen minutes ago.”

 

“Oh.” Laura feels like her head is spinning. She puts her bag down and tugs her coat tighter around her shoulders. “Why did you need to let off steam?”

 

Clint hesitates, and glances at Natasha. Laura follows his eyes. Nat looks tired and drawn, circles under her eyes. She hasn’t been sleeping well, Laura knows, since her last trip to Russia. She won’t talk to Laura about it, though Laura knows she’s talked to Clint.

 

That’s okay with her. She knows there’s some things they only tell each other, and she understands. Still, she worries. Laura reaches through the slats with her free hand, stroking Natasha’s loose curls. “Are you alright, love?”

 

Natasha smiles, thin and a little sad, but genuine. “I’m getting there,” she says. She elbows Clint lightly. “Beating up Clint always helps.”

 

“Spousal abuse,” Clint declares. Natasha snorts, rolling her eyes at him. Clint grins, and then glances up at Laura. “You want us to come in?”

 

Laura thinks for a moment. She does, sort of--it’s been a long day, and she’d like nothing more than to curl up on the couch or in bed with them and complain about PTA and shrinking art budgets. But she knows they need this, too. “No,” she decides. “No, that’s okay.” She pauses. “Could I watch you?”

 

Natasha blinks, surprise flickering over her features. “You want to watch us spar?”

 

Laura shrugs. “I haven’t ever really seen it,” she says, and surprises herself when she realizes that it’s true. She’d watched Natasha gently coach Clint back to fighting form after he’d blown his ears out, but since then, she’s never really had the chance, and she’s certainly never seen them fight when they’re both at full strength. “Is it okay?”

 

Natasha looks at Clint, and they exchange one of those long, silent glances. “It’s not...friendly,” Clint says after a long moment. “I mean, I’m okay with you watching, but it might look a little…” He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Brutal,” he seems to decide, with a glance at Natasha, who nods her agreement.

 

“Thanks for the warning.” Laura bends down to pick up her bag. “I’m going to go inside and change. Don’t start without me, okay?” They nod, looking almost amused, and Laura goes inside, dropping her bag in the study and slipping off her shoes, tiptoeing up the stairs. She pokes her head into Cooper’s room and finds him sprawled on his back, Mookey in one hand, his mouth open and looking vaguely like an old man who’d eaten too much at Thanksgiving. Laura smiles, bending into his crib and kissing his forehead, adjusting his blanket slightly before padding into the bedroom.

 

She changes out of her work clothes and into a warm pair of sweatpants and her Columbia sweatshirt, pulling one of Clint’s flannels on top of it. She tugs on a pair of fuzzy socks and goes back downstairs, jamming a hat over her hair and pulling her coat and boots back on, shuffling back out onto the porch and closing the door carefully behind her.

 

Clint and Natasha have moved to the front area of the porch, sitting on the stairs and sipping from water bottles while they wait for her. Laura smiles at them. “Taking a break?”

 

“I grab it when I can, this woman’s a slave driver,” Clint grumbles, climbing back to his feet. He passes Laura the baby monitor, and she slips it into her pocket.

 

“Just keeping you in shape, Hawkeye,” Natasha teases. She ties her hair back into a ponytail. She’s wearing leggings and a long-sleeved shirt with sneakers, and Laura feels cold just looking at her. Clint is dressed a little more reasonably in track pants and a sweatshirt blazoned with the SHIELD logo--“What kind of secret spy agency has clothing with its _logo_?” Natasha had asked, disgusted, when he’d brought it home, but Laura catches her wearing it all the time anyway--his feet bouncing slightly in his running shoes. “You all set?”

 

Clint shifts into a relaxed stance. “Whenever you are,” he says.

 

Natasha laughs and then bends into a stance of her own as Laura sits down on the steps, tugging her coat around her against the late autumn chill. Natasha smiles gently at Laura, much less gently at Clint, and then lunges at Clint.

 

 _Brutal_ , Clint had said, and Laura finds that it’s a fitting word. They clash together rapidly, and she’s grateful that they moved into the light, because she wouldn’t have been able to track their movements in the dark. She realizes quickly that they’re not pulling their punches at all, and it’s only the speed at which they’re able to dodge and block that keeps either of them from receiving dangerously hard hits.

 

But as brutal as it is, it’s beautiful, too, sensual in a way she hadn’t expected. They move in a way that’s clearly well-practiced--not choreographed, no; she won’t fool herself thinking that they’ve crafted this fight for her to watch, but there’s a smoothness to their movements that speaks to years of understanding of one another’s strengths and weaknesses and patterns. Laura has to bite back a gasp as Clint only barely dodges a savage kick from Natasha, and bites her lip again as the dodge reveals a strip of the skin of Clint’s stomach when he leans into a backbend and flips onto his feet. She looks at Natasha and sees that Nat is tracking Clint’s movements, too, and the look in her eyes is calculating and predatory.

 

Laura realizes, then, why watching this seems so familiar.

 

It feels like the first time she watched Clint and Natasha in bed.

 

It had been only a few weeks after they’d made the decision to give this thing with the three of them an honest try, and the night had been long and interesting and full of all sorts of revelations. Laura remembers a surprising amount of it, considering how much wine they’d shared before they moved to the bedroom, but she remembers watching them and feeling her heart pound at the intimacy and familiarity of their movements, the way they’d twisted and pinned and touched each other. There had been a brutality to that, too, she realized now, a long-practiced knowledge of each other’s likes and limits, a shared enjoyment of a roughness and strength.

 

She can see it in them now, in the way they look at each other as they fight, the heat in Clint’s eyes, the gleam of Natasha’s grin in the semi-darkness, all teeth, so unlike her usual wry smile.

 

Suddenly, Laura feels like she doesn’t really need her coat anymore.

 

The fight ends as suddenly as it had started. Clint blocks a punch just a fraction of a second too slowly and Natasha’s fist catches his jaw. Laura catches her wince and she pulls the punch at the last instant, but it’s still enough to knock Clint off balance, and Natasha sweeps a kick at his ankles. Clint falls back with a grunt and Natasha’s on him in an instant, pinning him at the hips and forearms, his arms spread under her grip. She stares down at him, both of them breathing hard, and Laura holds her breath.

 

Clint grins up at Natasha, and taps the back of his knuckles against the grass. Natasha laughs breathlessly and releases his arm, sitting back on his hips and swiping her sleeve across her sweaty forehead.

 

Laura lets out the breath she’s been holding, and the sound of her exhale is enough to make both of them look at her. Natasha looks almost uncertain, and Clint props himself up on one elbow, rubbing his jaw ruefully, his expression just as hesitant.

 

“Laur?” he asks, when Laura doesn’t immediately say anything. “You okay?”

 

Laura takes a deep breath, trying to think of the right thing to say. In the end, she just goes for it. “I would like,” she says, looking at them both and not bothering to try and keep any of the heat she’s feeling out of her gaze, “for the two of you to take me to bed.”

 

Natasha’s face breaks into a smile, Clint’s into a wicked grin. He shoves Natasha gently off his hips. “You heard my wife,” he says. “Let’s go.”

 

“That’d be _my_ wife,” Natasha teases. She climbs off of Clint’s lap and pads over to Laura, bending over her where she sits on the stairs. “Right?”

 

“Yes, dear,” Laura says, and tilts her face up for a kiss. Natasha laughs, the shadow finally easing itself away from her eyes. She kisses Laura deeply, and Laura holds onto her tight, determined to never let go.

 

**2015**

 

They ate a late lunch of sandwiches, in which Clint and Mike challenged each other to see who could put together the hugest culinary monstrosity while Laura and Natasha looked on in despair. “Your father,” Laura told Cooper, who was watching with wide, bright eyes, “is a horrible role model. As is your uncle. Do not aspire to be them when you grow up.”

 

“Lies,” Clint said around a mouthful. Natasha made a face at him, and he gave her a grin.

 

“No smiling and chewing,” Lila said smartly.

 

Natasha laughed, stroking her hair. “Good girl.”

 

Clint swallowed visibly. “Her mother’s daughter,” he said.

 

“Bull,” Mike said, trying to keep the top slice of bread on his sandwich as it slid around in the puddle of mustard he’d poured on. “Laura taught me everything I know.”

 

Laura blinked innocently. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

Natasha stifled a laugh into her glass of lemonade. She’d personally seen Laura inhale half a pizza without breaking stride, and that wasn’t even counting the way she ate while pregnant. It was both horrifying and amazing. Laura smiled at her from across the table, and Natasha couldn’t resist smiling back.

 

Wanda, sitting next to Lila, giggled into her sandwich, and Natasha felt her smile grow. As much as she’d doubted Clint’s idea to bring Wanda out to the farm, she couldn’t deny now that it was the right choice. Just a day here had brought more life and color back into her face than Natasha had ever seen in her before, and she moved with more calm and ease, the hypervigilance born of long years of fighting and fear starting to fade. It would never really disappear, Natasha knew that from experience, but even the slightest easing of that pressure could make a huge difference.

 

As if sensing Natasha’s gaze, Wanda glanced at her, and her lips curled in a small smile. She inclined her head just slightly, as if in acknowledgement, and then bent her head to better hear Lila’s excited story about a birthday party she’d be attending later in the week.

 

After lunch, Mike convinced Clint and the kids to help him pack the bags for the CSA, and dragged them outside to the greenhouses. Laura settled Nate into his sling to start cleaning up the kitchen, explaining the concept of community supported agriculture to Wanda as they cleared the dishes. Natasha listened as she soaped the dishes, letting herself drift in the comfortable familiarity of Laura’s voice. It was her teaching voice, she realized with a small smile, and had to suppress a chuckle. No wonder her students liked her so much--she was a good speaker, and had a gift for making even the logistics of farming seem intriguing.

 

“I like it,” Wanda said decisively, drying the plates that Natasha handed her from the sink and stacking therm carefully back on their shelves. “It seems old-fashioned, but nice.”

 

“It is,” Laura agreed. “It was Mike’s idea. When my grandparents owned the property, they had the land but weren’t using much of it, and they rented a lot of it out to local farmers. Mike took it over and worked with the renters to transition to organic farming, and they were on board with the CSA idea, which was great. Mike manages a lot of the logistics and bookkeeping, but he’s out in the fields, too. It’s a team effort.”

 

Wanda leaned against the counter, watching as Laura put the tin of flour onto the counter and then turned to measure out hot water into a bowl. They’d finished the last of the bread at lunch, and while Natasha knew there were always a few backup loaves in the freezer, Laura tended to like fresh bread with their meals. Natasha never objected--the smell of baking bread in the farmhouse was as much a part of her memories of this place as Laura’s slippers or the comfortable old sofa. “It’s funny,” Wanda said. “When the others told me about you, I thought that you were all alone out here, just being...a lonely housewife, I suppose. It seemed very wrong, you out here while Clint was saving the world.”

 

Laura smiled at her, spooning honey from a jar into the bowl of water. She barely seemed to measure it; Natasha knew the recipe by heart nearly as much as Laura did. “And now?”

 

“Now I see how much of a community you have,” Wanda said, watching the easy, practiced motions of Laura’s hands, the way she moved without seeming at all inconvenienced by Nate in his sling. “Natasha told me that you’re a teacher, and Lila and Cooper told me about their friends, the things they do in town, and your brother lives here, and the people he works with…” She smiled. “I’m glad to know about it. It is not good for someone to be alone.”

 

Her voice faltered a bit at that, going unsteady and a little sad. Without thinking, Natasha reached out and touched her elbow gently, and Wanda looked at her, her eyes bright and shining. She smiled, though, soft and sad. “I am learning to be just Wanda,” she said quietly. “I was part of a pair for so long. It is...harder than I thought.”

 

Laura measured yeast into the bowl, stirred gently, and then placed it into the warmed oven to proof before turning back to Wanda. “Learning to be alone is a hard thing,” she said, curling one arm around the curve of Nate’s body. “Especially when it’s not by choice.” She hesitated a moment, and then took Wanda’s other hand in hers. “I know that you lost your family, Wanda,” she said gently. “And I promise that no one will ever try to replace what you lost. But you can have a place here, in this family, for as long as you want it.”

 

She said it simply, as if it was the easiest thing in the world, and Natasha looked at her, feeling warmth flood through her. She wondered, sometimes, if Laura knew just what she was offering when she said things like that to people like her or Wanda. Laura had always been part of a family, had grown up loved and protected and happy, surrounded by parents and grandparents and siblings and cousins. She had family traditions and memories that filled her with warmth and comfort, not terror and nightmares; she held her children close without fear that she would wake in the night to find she’d snapped their necks. When Laura offered up her home, she did it without a second thought--hospitality and warmth, Natasha knew, came as easily to Laura as breathing. She laughingly called it her “Jewish mother syndrome”, a deep-seated need to make sure everyone around her was fed and sheltered and loved and then fed again, just for good measure.

 

To Laura, offering a place under her roof, at her table, and, if needed, in the comfort of a good hug was second nature. To someone like Wanda, adrift in the world, it meant the world.

 

Proving Natasha right, Wanda looked at Laura with wide eyes, tears trembling at the edges of her lashes. Laura glanced at Natasha, her gaze uncertain. “Did I say something wrong?”

 

Wanda swallowed visibly, shaking her head. “No,” she said. “I just…” she pressed her lips together, clasping and unclasping her hands in front of her, and then looked back up at Laura. When she spoke, her voice came out in a soft whisper. “Could I give you a hug?”

 

Laura blinked, surprise flickering across her features, and then she smiled, calm and gentle. “Of course,” she said.

 

Wanda hesitated. “What about the baby?”

 

Laura shook her head. “Never mind the baby,” she said. “He’s been in the middle of plenty of hugs. He probably won’t even wake up.” She held out her arms, beckoning Wanda toward her. “Come here.”

 

Natasha nudged Wanda gently forward. “You’re stuck now,” she said, keeping her voice teasing but kind. “You’ve tapped into her mom side.”

 

“Hush, you,” Laura said, but she didn’t lower her arms, and after another moment’s hesitation Wanda stepped slowly into them, her own arms curling almost nervously around Laura’s back. Laura folded Wanda into her embrace with the same tender ease Natasha saw her use with Coop or Lila, one arm tucking over her shoulders, the other cupping almost maternally around the crown of Wanda’s head, her fingers threading into Wanda’s hair.

 

For a moment, Wanda stood stiffly, not quite leaning into Laura, but not pulling away, either. Natasha found herself thinking that maybe it was too much for her, and nearly stepped forward to let Wanda know that it was okay to pull back, that it wouldn’t hurt Laura’s feelings. Just as she moved to do so, Wanda pulled in a deep breath and fisted both hands into the fabric of Laura’s shirt, burying her face into Laura’s shoulder.

 

“There you are, honey,” Laura murmured, one hand rubbing gentle circles into Wanda’s back. Wanda’s shoulders tightened and started to shake, and Laura made a quiet hushing sound, humming softly into Wanda’s hair. “There you go.” Her eyes flickered up to meet Natasha’s, and Natasha realized with a start that her own eyes were stinging and misty, tears prickling in the corners. Laura inclined her head very slightly, but Natasha swallowed and shook her head, mouthing _I’m okay_. Laura’s lips curved into a small smile, her eyes softening.

 

Natasha should have known better. Laura had never needed Natasha to speak to know what she was thinking. That was Laura’s gift, more than her art or her teaching--the simple ease in which she could look at someone and seem to know, inherently, just what they needed. For Clint, it was stability and unconditional love; for the Avengers after South Africa, it had been safety and quiet and normalcy, a reminder of what they were fighting for. For Wanda, it was this: simple, soft affection, offered without expectation or demand of return.

 

Natasha was still trying to figure out what she needed. She didn’t doubt that Laura knew, and was just waiting for Natasha herself to realize it, and come back to ask for it. Natasha and Clint could wait hours behind the scope of a sniper rifle for the perfect shot, but Laura could wait years for Natasha and Clint to get their heads out of their asses, and that, Natasha suspected, was quite a bit harder.

 

It was a long time before Wanda extricated herself from Laura’s embrace, and her eyes were damp and red as she looked back at Natasha. Natasha dampened a washcloth at the sink and handed it to her. “It’ll help,” she said simply.

 

Wanda took it with a small smile. “Thank you,” she said, a bit hoarsely. She glanced back at Laura, a slight flush to her cheeks. “I’m sorry for crying.”

 

Laura gave a firm shake of her head. “No apologies necessary,” she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. “I cry six or seven times a day, you think I have any legs to stand on to judge?”

 

“That’s different,” Wanda protested. “You had a baby.”

 

Natasha snorted. “I wouldn’t bother,” she told Wanda honestly. “I’ve been trying to win that argument for years. She’s just a pro-tears person.”

 

“Crying is good for you,” Laura said firmly. “It’s cathartic, and helps all of the feelings you’re bottling up inside--good _or_ bad--get out so that you have room in your heart for whatever comes next.” She moved past Wanda and Natasha to the sink, taking down a glass and filling it, holding it out to Wanda.

 

Wanda accepted it with a slightly confused look. “What’s this for?”

 

Laura shrugged. “Crying is also dehydrating,” she said. “It’s why you sometimes get a headache after.”

 

That brought a small, amused smile to Wanda’s lips. “Like with drinking?”

 

Laura laughed. “Just like drinking,” she said. “But please don’t tell the children that.”

 

Wanda ducked her head, smiling. “I won’t.” She shuffled her feet slightly on the floor, swallowed, and then looked up at Laura. “No one has held me like that since my brother died,” she said quietly. “A hug just for the sake of a hug, just to make me feel better.” Her fingers tightened visibly on the glass of water, and then relaxed. “Thank you.”

 

“Don’t thank me,” Laura said. “Keeping all of you wayward superheroes kept in hugs and decent food is the best part of my job.”

 

“What’s the worst part?” Wanda asked, curiosity slipping into her tone.

 

“Getting the bloodstains out of that weird fabric Stark designed,” Laura said, her face taking on a pained expression. “Have you _met_ Clint?”

 

That startled a small giggle out of Wanda, and Laura smiled at her and sent a small wink in Natasha’s direction. Natasha couldn’t help smiling back. “If it’s all right, I’m going to go outside,” Wanda said, setting her empty water glass down on the counter beside the sink. “I’d like to help your brother and Clint and the children with the CSA and see how it works. Unless you need help with the bread?”

 

Laura shook her head. “Not at all. Go and have fun.” She glanced at the clock. “Oh, and while you’re out there, please remind Clint that Lila has a piano lesson at 3:30 that she needs to be at least somewhat clean for.”

 

Wanda nodded. “Thank you again,” she said, a little shyly, and left the kitchen to put her shoes on by the door.

 

Natasha waited until the door closed behind her with a gentle click before turning back to Laura, who had already taken the now proofed yeast out of the oven and was measuring oil and salt into the bowl. Natasha leaned against the counter, crossing her arms and watching Laura hum to herself as she started scooping flour out of its tin and adding it to the bowl. She moved smoothly and easily, spooning and stirring, pausing now and then to poke at the dough and to clean off her hands so that she could adjust the weight of Nate’s sling.

 

When Laura had kneaded the dough and turned it back into the bowl, slipping it into the oven to rise, Natasha cleared her throat quietly. “Laura?”

 

Laura gave a little jump of surprise, turning to look at her, one hand resting over her heart. “Nat, oh my God. I forgot you were there.” She narrowed her eyes. “Haven’t we had multiple talks about you being a ninja?”

 

They had. Natasha smiled. “Sorry,” she said, even knowing she’d still do it again. Too much of a habit.

 

“No you’re not,” Laura said, giving her a knowing grin, and Natasha couldn’t help returning it. “What is it?”

 

“I…” Natasha bit her lower lip, trying to think of the right words for what she wanted to say, to communicate how grateful she was for the way Laura could so easily bring a bit of sunlight to the face of even someone as broken as her or Wanda.

 

There weren’t words, she realized. There never would be. “Come here?”

 

Laura put down the towel she was using to dry her hands and moved closer, stepping into Natasha’s space easily, without a hint of hesitation or distrust. Even that, Natasha thought; she just doesn’t realize what it means. Laura tilted her head to one side, patient and curious, and Natasha reached up, cupping Laura’s face between her hands. Laura’s lips parted, a soft inhaled gasp, and Natasha leaned forward before she could think herself out of it, kissing her gently, slowly, not quite chastely.

 

It took Laura a moment to open her eyes when they parted, and Natasha watched her take her time, her own heart beating hard and heavy in her ears. Laura’s expression was soft and wistful, even with her eyes closed, but she smoothed the longing away when she opened them, licking her lips and swallowing before raising her eyebrows, smoothing away the wrinkles in Natasha’s shirt from where Laura had been fisting her hands. “What was that for?”

 

For not giving up on me, Natasha wanted to say. For always opening up your home, and never turning anyone away, no matter what they’ve done. For believing in second chances. For waiting for me, and being patient.

 

For loving everyone. For loving _me_.

 

“For being you,” Natasha said simply, and Laura, her fingers still curled gently into the fabric of Natasha’s shirt, smiled.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: reference to torture, reference to child abuse, explicit death of a child, canon-typical violence, consensual (and vaguely sexual?) violence between male and female characters. As always, if there's something you think I should have warned for, please feel free to let me know.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to [Deb](http://debz0rz.tumblr.com) for her proofreading skills. Also thanks to [isjustprogress](http://isjustprogress.tumblr.com) for her affection, encouragement, flailing, fic-discussion, and immensely depressing Hamilton singalongs. And thank you, most of all, to everyone who continues to come back to this fic and leave feedback. :) You are the best people on the planet. 
> 
> Questions about my writing process? Thoughts about the fic? Find me on [tumblr](http://geniusorinsanity.tumblr.com)!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end of chapter for notes and warnings.

**2008**

 

“You’re sure you’ll be home by Friday?” Laura asks.

 

Natasha tucks her phone more securely into the crook of her neck, tugging up the collar of her trench coat against the chilly Latvian wind. “I’m sure, Laur,” she says, flashing a brief smile at the slim waitress bringing her the check for her cappuccino.

 

“Because it’s important.”

 

“Oh?” Natasha tucks enough cash to cover the bill into the slim folder and lays it on the table beside her cup. “Something I should know about?”

 

“Nosy,” Laura says, teasing and playful. “It’s a surprise.”

 

Draining the end of her coffee and setting the cup delicately back down, Natasha climbs to her feet and sets off across the brick-laid city square, leaving the outdoor cafe behind her. “You know how I feel about surprises,” she says.

 

“You’ll like this one.”

 

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Natasha glances around her before slipping down a cobblestoned street. “I have to go, love. Kiss Cooper for me.”

 

“I will. I love you.”

 

“You, too.” Natasha hangs up, turns off the phone, and tosses it into the next garbage can she passes before continuing on her way down the street.

 

She hasn’t done a proper grifting job in a long time, and she finds herself more excited than she’d thought she would be when she took it. Seducing the director of an art museum to get at the night alarm codes in order to steal a priceless artifact--it has all the thrill of the heist movies Clint loves so much, and it’s been too long since she’s gotten to break out her trenchcoat-and-heels collection to sway a mark. “Cheesy,” Laura had said, when Natasha had twirled for her in the little black dress and red-soled Louboutin heels, but Natasha had caught the sparkle in her eye, and Laura had hauled her into bed by the straps of her very expensive lingerie.

 

Besides, jobs like these pay the bills, and Natasha has a kid to put through college. Natasha’s never bothered looking herself, but from what Laura tells her, the Ivy League schools don’t come cheap.

 

The museum is gently lit when Natasha steps inside, the lighting no doubt carefully designed to best highlight the dips and curves of the bronze sculptures on display against the setting sun. She lets herself take a moment to just look at them, taking in the beauty of the sculpted and soldered metal and thinking, a little fancifully, of the creativity and dedication it must have taken the artist, to turn old, twisted metal into something beautiful.

 

Laura would like this, she thinks, and smiles.

 

Glancing briefly at the antique clock mounted on the wall, Natasha turns away from the display and makes her way along the corridor towards the curator’s office. She finds the sturdy oak door easily and makes quick work of the lock, slipping inside and closing the door gently behind her.

 

Inside, the office is tastefully decorated, all classic art and smooth, modern furniture. Natasha settles herself in the chair behind the desk and lets her gaze wander around the room. Not very interesting decor, she thinks, but at least the chair is comfortable. She glances at her watch, counting mentally down to when Andris Ozols should be returning to his office. From her research, she’s concluded that the man is rather dull, but generally predictable in his routines. He always gets a tea and a pastry at a cafe down the street at five in the afternoon, and returns to the museum by five twenty-four.

 

Natasha has counted. She believes in being precise.

 

At five twenty-three, she hears muffled footsteps on the other side of the door. Natasha rearranges herself more attractively in the chair, crossing her legs at the ankles to best highlight the length and curve. She flips her hair back, scrunching her curls briefly before letting them settle, just this side of intentionally tousled. As the knob starts to turn, she puts Natasha away into a safe box in her mind, lets herself sink into Natālija, and smiles.

 

The door slides open, and the warmth of Natālija flows away in a rush of ice through her veins. Natasha sits up, one hand reaching for her gun, but even as she does, she knows it’s too late.

 

Yelena steps into the room, her gun trained calmly between Natasha’s eyes. “Natalia,” she says, smiling. It’s a Red Room smile, cool and brittle. Natasha knows that smile, has worn it herself, has felt it splinter and break under the weight of a thousand false identities. “It’s been a long time.”

 

“Yes,” Natasha says, carefully. There is one exit from this room. Yelena is blocking it, and Natasha is sure Yelena knows it.

 

“Where is your little bird today?” Yelena tilts her head to one side, her blonde curls spilling over her shoulders, almost coy. “Sitting in a perch somewhere? Waiting for you?”

 

Natasha wishes, more than anything, that he was. But Clint is on a SHIELD mission, halfway around the world, and Natasha is here alone. She says nothing, just lifts her head a fraction. “Why are you here, Yelena? I thought we were past competing for the same jobs.”

 

Yelena’s lip curls, and Natasha thinks, _oh_. There’s no job. Of course there’s no job. “It’s not enough for us to have a family reunion? After all, we were almost sisters, once.”

 

“Funny, I don’t remember all that much sibling affection.” Natasha doesn’t move. In close quarters like this, Yelena has the advantage of being armed and standing. If she moves closer, there’s a chance that she can disarm her, but it’s a slim chance that Yelena will make a mistake like that. She raises her eyebrows, schooling her heartbeat to calmness with the practice of long years. “So you’re here to kill me?”

 

“Of course not.” Yelena’s blue eyes glitter. “Like I said, it’s a family reunion.”

 

A shadow falls across the doorway, and Natasha’s blood turns to ice.

 

The man who steps through the door is tall and broad-shouldered, his once-dark hair streaked with grey. Deep lines surround his mouth and eyes, the moustache Natasha remembers as heavy and well-groomed now a thick, wiry beard.

 

But his eyes are the same, and the smile curling his lips has haunted Natasha’s nightmares for years. “Ivan,” she breathes, and her voice comes out as a frightened whisper, not the calm tone she always imagined she would use if this day ever came.

 

“Natalia,” he says, smiling at her. “You’re looking very well.”

 

Natasha curls her hands into careful fists to keep them from trembling. “What do you want?”

 

“To see you, of course.” He steps inside and closes the door behind him, and sits across from Natasha in one of the hand-carved mahogany chairs, arranging himself comfortably. Behind him, Yelena keeps her gun steadily trained on Natasha, and her arm showing no sign of wavering with the strain. “And to give you an assignment, of course.”

 

Natasha raises her eyebrows. “I don’t work for you anymore,” she says. “Didn’t you get my letter of resignation? I thought I was very clear.”

 

Ivan inclines his head, draping one arm comfortably over the back of his chair. “I did receive it,” he says mildly. “Rather messy, but quite thorough.”

 

“Not as thorough as I would have liked, apparently,” Natasha says, narrowing her eyes at him. “I hate loose ends.”

 

“You always did.” He gives her a pleasant smile. “But as I said, I do have a job to give you. One that needs a Black Widow’s expertise.”

 

Natasha looks at Yelena, still standing calm and straight, her expression unreadable. “You have one.”

 

“I’m afraid Yelena occasionally lacks a certain...restraint.” Yelena’s lips thin briefly at that, a barely-perceptible shift. “No, Natalia, it will have to be you. You always were the gem of the program, despite your rather unfortunate independent streak.”

 

It takes considerable effort to keep herself from flinching. The Red Room had worked hard to bleed that _independent streak_ out of her, and it was only their dedication to not leaving permanent marks on their graduates that kept her from having the scars to prove it. “I appreciate the compliment,” she says, swallowing carefully. “But like I said. I don’t work for you anymore.”

 

Ivan’s expression doesn’t falter. “I must not have been clear,” he says. “I’m afraid this particular assignment isn’t optional.”

 

Cold terror curls icy fingers into her gut. “You don’t have any hold on me,” Natasha says, hating the fear that slips into her voice. “I broke my programming.”

 

“Yes, you did.” Ivan’s smile shifts, from pleasant to smug, and Natasha realizes what he’s going to say before he says it.

 

 _No_ , she thinks, wanting to run, but finding herself unable to move. _No, please_.

 

“Unfortunately,” Ivan continues. “There are always failsafes in place.”

 

Natasha doesn’t hear what he says next. She doesn’t hear anything, other than the sound of her own silent screaming echoing through her mind, the breaking of her heart.

 

And then Natasha is gone.

 

The door to the office opens, a slim, middle-aged man stepping through. He blinks at the three of them through large, thick-rimmed spectacles, taking in Yelena’s gun, Ivan’s casual posture. “Who are you?” he demands. “How did you get in here?”

 

Ivan looks idly at the museum director. “Natalia,” he says calmly. “If you’d be so kind.”

 

Calmly, she rises from the chair, crosses the room in graceful, easy strides. The museum director looks at her, fear and anger warring on his face, and she cups his jaw gently between his hands, smiling softly at him. “It’s all right,” she says. “Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine.”

 

She moves her hands, one swift, quick motion. He falls to her feet in a slump, his neck twisted, his eyes open in faint, confused surprise.

 

She turns to look at Ivan, who has climbed to his feet, smiling at her. “All right,” Natalia says. “What’s next?”

 

**2015**

 

“Wanda!” Laura stood at the bottom of the stairs, one hand resting gently on the bannister. “Come on, honey, we’re going!”

 

Beside her, Natasha adjusted her grip on Nathaniel’s car seat. Buckled safely inside, Nate was fast asleep, a small snot bubble growing and shrinking at his nostril as he breathed. “Remind me again why we’re going on a field trip?”

 

“Because my refrigerator is nearly empty,” Laura said mildly. “And because Wanda needs to get out a bit. It’ll be good for her.”

 

Wanda came down the stairs, tying her hair up into a ponytail. “I’m sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I could not find my shoes, and then I remembered they were down here.”

 

Laura laughed. “That’s alright.” She gave Wanda a once-over and smiled. With her hair tied up, she looked young and fresh-faced, and Laura couldn’t help thinking that she’d been looking brighter and happier with each day she spent here. Another point for Clint, she thought, smiling. “We’re not really in a rush.”

 

“Am I dressed all right?” Wanda smoothed down the flannel shirt she’d borrowed from Laura’s closet--actually Laura’s, not one of Clint’s that she’d appropriated--and gestured to her jeans.

 

“You’re fine. We’re just going to the farmer’s market in town.” Laura led the way out the front door once Wanda had slipped her boots on and laced them, heading out to her car, parked beside Clint’s truck. She put Nate’s car seat into the back seat, buckling it securely, and then slid into the driver’s seat.

 

The drive into town was short and quiet, but the silence in the car was comfortable and friendly. Laura kept the windows open, letting the summer breeze blow her hair around, and relaxed into the easy drive.

 

“It’s bigger than I remember,” Natasha commented as Laura parked in the large field that bordered the local farmer’s market. “Shouldn’t Mike be here?”

 

Laura shook her head, pocketing the keys and getting out. “He does the Tuesday and Saturday markets,” she said, opening the back door to unbuckle Nate from his car seat. She draped the sling over her shoulder and tucked Nate into it, slinging her purse over her other shoulder. She didn’t bother with a diaper bag--a changing pad and extra diapers and wipes fit in her purse. “He skips the Friday one since we do CSA distribution on Thursday and he needs the prep time on Friday for the Saturday market.”

 

“It seems like it involves a lot of planning,” Wanda said, coming around the back of the car. Laura didn’t miss her standing close to Natasha, nor the way Natasha glanced briefly at her and then allowed the close proximity.

 

“He seems to like it,” Laura said. She took the reusable bags out of the trunk and passed them to Natasha. “Here. You’re on carrying duty.”

 

Natasha made a face, but took them. “Isn’t this Clint’s job?”

 

“Usually,” Laura said. “But you will note that Clint is not here.”

 

Wanda giggled. Natasha glanced at her. “Traitor,” she said, but there was a small smile playing about her lips.

 

Laura led the way over to the market, greeting the farmers at the different stands. After so long she knew almost everyone one way or another--she’d taught the children of anyone who had kids in school, and had met everyone else through the local networking events Mike held at the house from time to time. For most of them it was their first time meeting Nate, and Laura let them coo and aww over him, allowing herself a bit of preening. Growing babies was hard work, and as far as she was concerned, she was entitled to a bit of self-congratulatory pride.

 

She didn’t fail to notice Natasha bristling slightly each time someone leaned too close to Laura, or laid a hand on Nate’s sling to exclaim over him. Even Wanda began to tense a bit as it continued to happen, and when Laura caught a flicker of red energy at Wanda’s fingertips, she decided enough was enough. Handing a wrapped crottin of fresh goat cheese to Natasha to put into the bag, she pulled them both aside as they left Danny Bell’s stall. “Look,” she said, gently but firmly, one hand on Natasha’s arm, the other on Wanda’s shoulder. “I appreciate the protectiveness, but these are good people, and I know them. You two need to relax.”

 

Natasha’s lips thinned. “I know they’re good people, Laura,” she said, but a hint of unhappiness lingered around her eyes. “I just don’t like them touching you.”

 

“Tough,” Laura said, blunter than she normally would have been, but this was Natasha. She could handle it. “That’s not your call to make.” She looked at Wanda. “What about you?” she asked, softening her tone. “This doesn’t seem like you.”

 

Wanda pressed her lips together, her dark blue eyes uncertain, and she dropped her gaze to Nate, still contentedly asleep against Laura’s chest. “He’s named for Pietro,” she said, her voice very small.

 

Laura softened. “Oh, honey.” She released Wanda’s wrist, placing a gentle hand on her cheek instead. “He’s very safe here,” she said. “I promise. And if there’s any sign of danger, you can blow up anyone you want with your powers, and both Clint and I will thank you for it.”

 

A small flicker of a smile crossed Wanda’s face. “That isn’t really how they work,” she said. “My powers.”

 

“Well, I’m sure the sentiment is what counts,” Laura said mildly. She glanced at Natasha. “Same goes to you, since I’m assuming you’re armed.”

  
Natasha gave her an innocent look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “This is a public place. That would be very wrong.”

 

Laura snorted. “Sure, dear,” she said, and would have said more, but a squeal from behind her cut her off.

 

“Laura Barton! Look who’s finally out and about!”

 

Laura turned in time to catch an armful of an old friend. “Hi, Beth,” she said, laughing as she wrapped an arm around her. Beth was as practiced at baby-wearing as Laura was, and had positioned herself carefully to avoid squashing Nate. “How are you?”

 

“Good, I’m good.” Beth grinned brightly at her. “Scott’s got the kids at his mother’s for the day, so I get a trip to the market without fielding a million requests for ice cream. How’s that superhero husband of yours?”

 

“He’s good,” Laura said. It was still strange, having people know who Clint was, but then, your ex-wife dropping all your code names onto the internet would do that. Still, they were a small, protective town, and not a single news crew had shown up at Laura’s front door since the leak. The biggest change had been the starry-eyed way the local kids looked at Clint, and the grin on Cooper’s face on career day at school. “And you remember Natasha?”

 

Beth’s eyebrows shot up as Natasha gave a small wave. “I do,” she said, her tone a bit thoughtful. “Haven’t seen you in years. You’ve been pretty busy.”

 

“Something like that,” Natasha said. Wanda looked at her, a bit curious, and Laura couldn’t blame her. Natasha looked more uncomfortable under Beth’s gaze than Laura had seen her in a long time. “Good to see you again.”

 

“Mm,” Beth said, frowning slightly. “You know, you could have put Laura and the kids in a lot of danger, dumping all that stuff online.” She crossed her arms. “Weren’t you thinking of that? I thought they were your family.”

 

Natasha’s eyelashes flickered briefly, a barely-perceptible sign of anger, though the rest of her expression was calm. “It was a high-risk situation,” she said. “I had to make a difficult call.” She raised her chin a fraction, her green eyes blazing. “Clint and I would die before we let anything happen to Laura or the kids.”

 

“Natasha,” Laura said quietly, touching her arm. “It’s all right.” She glanced at Beth. “Beth’s just protective.”

 

“Damn right,” Beth said flatly. Still, her eyes softened somewhat. “I’m sorry,” she told Natasha. “I didn’t mean to imply you didn’t care.”

 

Natasha looked coolly at her for another moment, and then let out a soft sigh, her muscles relaxing under Laura’s grip. “There was no mention of Laura or the family anywhere in SHIELD’s records,” she said, and Laura had to suppress a jump of surprise at the candor. “I wouldn’t have leaked them if there was, no matter what the threat.”

 

Beth’s lips parted in shock. “I thought you said it was a high-risk situation,” she said slowly.

 

Natasha gave a small, wry smile. “It was,” she said. “But like you said…” She looked at Laura, and Laura felt her heart clench at the open emotion on her face, her eyes soft and tender and so full of care that tears prickled at the corners of Laura’s eyes. “They’re my family.”

 

Beth was quiet for a long moment, and then a small, hesitant smile curved her lips. “I always kind of suspected,” she said.

 

Laura sucked in a quick gasp. “Beth,” she began, but Beth shook her head, smiling.

 

“Don’t worry, Laur,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “You know I can keep a secret.” She leaned over and gave Laura a peck on the cheek. “I’d better get home to walk the dog,” she said. “Enjoy the rest of the market.”

 

“Thank you,” Natasha said, her expression unreadable. Beth turned to her, her smile softening.

 

“You’re welcome,” she said. “And...welcome back to town.” To Laura’s surprise, she leaned over and gave Natasha a hug, and then she was gone, walking lightly back towards the parking field.

 

Wanda cleared her throat quietly. “I’m confused,” she said. “What was that?”

 

“Beth’s a friend of mine from town,” Laura said, tearing her eyes away from Natasha to look at Wanda. “She’s met Natasha a few times over the years as well.”

 

Wanda gave Natasha a curious look. “You let her hug you,” she said.

 

Natasha shrugged, though she looked vaguely surprised. “She can be a force of nature,” she said, but it was half-hearted, and Laura had to muffle a soft snort of amusement. She gave a little shake of her shoulders, clearing her throat pointedly. “Why don’t you go over to the fruit stall and pick something out?” she told Wanda. “Look for color; we’ll make a fruit salad with dinner.”

 

With a look at Natasha that clearly said she was going to be asking more questions later, Wanda flashed Laura a smile and headed off in the direction of Tanya Campbell’s stand. Tanya’s wolfhound, Bear, sitting by the stall, wagged his tail happily at her as she approached. Laura chuckled, and glanced at Natasha. “So,” she said quietly. “We’re your family?”

 

Natasha inclined her head, but her gaze was soft, her eyes warm. “Always have been,” she said. She reached into the bag she was carrying, plucking one small stem from the bouquet of flowers Laura had bought from Danny and tucking the bloom into Laura’s hair, just behind her ear. “Come on,” she said, her lips curving into a smile. “Let’s make sure Wanda gets strawberries. I’ve got a craving.”

 

She set off across the market. Laura touched her fingers to the soft petals of the flower, and then looked down at Nate, just beginning to wake, blinking up at her. “That woman,” she told him, “will never cease to confuse and amaze me.”

 

Nate yawned and gave her a gummy smile, still mostly reflex at this point. Laura laughed softly, dipping her head into the sling to kiss his forehead, and followed Natasha.

 

**2008**

 

Clint’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he holsters his gun, reaching for it. TEXT MESSAGE FROM LB, it says, and he swipes a thumb across the screen to open it.

 

 _Nat didn’t come home from her last job_ , it reads. _2 days late, no contact. U hear from her??_

 

He frowns, pulling the protective ear mufflers down around his neck and shoving the safety glasses up on top of his head. _She might b held up_ , he types back. _I’ll try 2 contact. Get back 2 u ASAP._

 

There’s a pause, and then _K. Love u_ pops up on his screen. He smiles, locking the screen and slipping it back into his pocket. He moves to put the glasses back on, but the door to the range opens behind him, and Phil Coulson steps into the room. “Coulson,” he says. “You need me?”

 

Coulson nods. “Mission briefing,” he says. He looks tired, tightness at the corners of his mouth.

 

Clint raises his eyebrows. “Thought I was supposed to get some R and R,” he says. He’s careful to keep any disappointment out of his voice, but he’d been looking forward to getting home to the farm for a few weeks.

 

“You were,” Coulson says, and has the good grace to at least look apologetic. “But something’s come up, and Fury wants you and May on it.”

 

“Great.” Clint tugs the mufflers off and tosses them into the bin to be cleaned, along with the glasses. He checks the chamber of his gun and shrugs, holstering it again. “Let’s go.”

 

He follows Coulson down to one of the smaller briefing rooms, letting Coulson hold the door open for him. May is already inside, two mugs of coffee in front of her, and she slides one to him as he sits down next to her. “They tell you what this is about?”

 

She shakes her head. “Just to not make any plans any time soon,” she says. She sounds annoyed, and Clint can’t blame her. May’s got a husband at home, and he knows she’s been looking forward to some time off-base as much as Clint has. “What’s going on, Coulson?”

 

Coulson closes the door, sitting down at the table, folding his hands over a stack of briefing folders in front of him. “Before we begin, I have a question.” He surveys them both carefully, his expression betraying nothing. “How much do you know about the Black Widow project?”

 

Clint feels his stomach turn to lead. It’s sheer luck that he manages to keep himself from snapping the pencil he’d picked up off the table.

 

May leans back in her seat, crossing her arms. “It was a Soviet attempt to replicate the super soldier serum used on Steve Rogers, wasn’t it? I saw a mention of them in one of my other mission files. There’s mentions of them going back to the Cold War.”

 

“Further back than that,” Coulson says, sliding a file to each of them. “SHIELD had its first interaction with a Black Widow agent before we were even SHIELD--back when it was still the Strategic Scientific Reserve. We have reason to believe they were in operation as far back as World War II.”

 

May raises her eyebrows. “Were they successful?”

 

“With the serum? It’s unclear. But we do know that the Black Widow training program produced some of the most deadly assassins in history.” Coulson turned on the projector in the center of the table, and a series of photographs appeared on the screen on the wall, layered on top of one another. “We’ve traced kills to their agents going back fifty years.”

 

Clint swallows hard. He doesn’t like where this is going. He’s spent the last year doing everything he can to keep Natasha off SHIELD’s radar. _Please, Nat_ , he thinks. _Please tell me you haven’t done anything stupid_. “So what’s the job?”

 

Coulson presses a button on the projector remote, and a video file appears on the screen. “This was taken from a security camera at the Museu do Ipiranga in Sao Paulo,” he says. He pauses before he plays it. “It’s messy,” he says, as if in warning.

 

May’s expression doesn’t waver. “We’ve seen worse,” she says with a shrug.

 

Clint says nothing. His tongue feels like chalk in his mouth.

 

The video plays, and it’s brutal. Two women, moving in a nearly-identical fighting style, moving through a team of well-armed security guards like warm butter, leaving a trail of blood and gore sinking into the plush carpet of the museum. They move almost too fast to be seen, but Clint doesn’t need to see the individual movements to recognize Natasha. He’s been fighting by her side for more than ten years.

 

He would know her anywhere.

 

 _Nat_ , he thinks, his heart breaking. _What are you doing?_

 

Beside him, May sucks in a breath as the other woman in the video snaps a guard’s neck between her thighs and then slices his throat. “Overkill, isn’t it?”

 

“They’re trained to be thorough,” Coulson says, but he sounds slightly nauseous. Clint swallows, hard.

 

The last guard falls, and the two women go still. “Do we have audio?” May asks, leaning forward in her chair.

 

Coulson shakes his head. “Video only,” he says. “But we get a good look at one of them here.”

 

As Clint watches, Natasha turns her gaze toward the camera, looking directly into the lens. He catches his breath. Her expression is utterly flat, no trace of the woman he’d come to know and love over the years. Even in the grainy security video, he can see the ice in her eyes, the lack of warmth or humor, and he knows, instantly, that the woman in the video is not his Natasha. The woman who is not Natasha draws a gun from the holster at her thigh and aims it at the camera.

 

She fires, and the screen goes black.

 

May exhales slowly as Coulson flips the lights back on. “Who are they?”

 

“Graduates of the Widow program,” Coulson says, taking his seat once more. “Natalia Romanova and Yelena Belova.” He nods towards the files he’d given them. “Those files contain everything we have on them.”

 

“These aren’t very thick,” May says doubtfully, opening her folder and scanning the cover page.

 

“No, they’re not.” Coulson folds his hands into a steeple, his face tense. “We don’t have much of anything on either of them, other than what we’ve been able to compile from fragments of other files. Half of what’s in there is about the Black Widow program itself.”

 

“Anything on their families?” May asks, pulling a grainy photo of Yelena from the inside of the folder.

 

“There wouldn’t be,” Clint says. His voice comes out hoarse and thick, and he clears his throat roughly before he continues. He sits up straighter in his seat, fingering the edge of the file folder. “They’re taken as kids, raised in the program. They use neuropsychological conditioning to get complete loyalty.”

 

May raises her eyebrows. “How do you know that?”

 

Clint scrubs a hand over his face. “Came into contact with one of their agents a few years back,” he says, picking up the pencil and turning it over and over in his hand. “She managed to break their programming.”

 

Coulson looks intrigued. “How did she do that?”

 

“I don’t know,” Clint says, and hates that it’s true. What the _fuck_ could have gotten Nat to work with Yelena, of all people? “But she told me that all of the Black Widow handlers were dead.”

 

“Apparently she was wrong. Look at page six.” Coulson nods to the files, and Clint opens his, flipping to a picture of a middle-aged man with stern eyes and a thick black beard, streaked with grey.

 

“Ivan Petrovich?” Clint frowns. He remembers Natasha mentioning an Ivan, and wishes he could remember the context. “Who is he?”

 

“Former KGB. He works as an advisor to the Kremlin, now.” Coulson leans back in his chair. “He has long ties to Belova, though, and we have surveillance footage of him meeting with her in Riga.”

 

Natasha’s last job was in Riga, Clint remembers. His heart sinks. “I’ve gone up against Belova,” he says, pushing his feelings down as far as he can. “She was working as an independent contractor, not as a Widow agent.” He nods at the stilled video. “And she wasn’t acting like that, either.”

 

Coulson frowns. “What are you thinking, Clint?”

 

Clint flips through the file, wheels in his head turning. “They use neuro-linguistic programming to train their agents,” he says slowly. “What if they programmed in some kind of failsafe, in case an agent went rogue and they needed to pull her back in? Some kind of trigger? A hard reset?”

 

“It could make sense,” Coulson says. He looks thoughtful for a moment. “That former Widow agent you said you ran into,” he says finally. “Can you dig her up? Get us some intel?”

 

“Maybe.” Not. All of his intel about the Black Widow program had come from Natasha, and if the video was any indication, _Natasha_ is somewhere deep inside the woman that’s now a Black Widow once more.

 

She _has_ to be somewhere inside her. Clint doesn’t let himself consider the alternative.

 

He can’t.

 

“It’ll take some time,” he says instead, dragging his eyes back up to meet Coulson’s. “I’ll need to track down some old contacts.”

 

Coulson nods. “You’ve got a week,” he says. “Fury wants these two off the map.”

 

Clint’s blood freezes in his veins. “Just like that?”

 

“They’ve already racked up a body count in the double digits,” Coulson says.

 

May’s brow furrows. “But if they’re brainwashed--programmed somehow--”

 

Coulson shakes his head. “Fury was very clear,” he says, but even he looks a little uncomfortable with it. “He makes the calls.”

 

Clint swallows. “Fine.” He’ll burn that bridge when he gets to it. He’s pissed Fury off before, and he doesn’t mind doing it again. “I’d better get on those calls.” Coulson nods at him, and Clint climbs to his feet, touching May’s shoulder briefly before leaving the room.

 

It takes everything he has not to break into a run, and he manages to keep his steps slow and controlled. He veers off into the first supply closet he comes across, closing and locking the door behind him and leaning against it. His breath is coming in short, frantic gasps, and he clenches his fists hard enough to draw blood, forcing himself to take long, deep breaths through his nose and doing his best to keep from dissolving into a full-on panic attack. His pulse pounds through his ears and he closes his eyes.

 

Natasha broke her programming once, he reminds himself, slowly unclenching his fists and flexing his fingers. If it can be broken once, it can be broken again.

 

All he has to do is get her back.

 

He takes a deep breath, scrubs a hand over his eyes to wipe away the furious tears that have gathered at his eyes, and takes out his phone to call Laura.

 

**2015**

 

Clint greeted them on the porch when they got back from the farmer’s market, a giggling Lila slung over his shoulder. “Good timing,” he said as they got out of the car, setting Lila back on her feet. “Go give your momma and Auntie Nat kisses, monkey, and then we’ve gotta get going.”

 

Laura squinted at him as she bent to catch Lila in a hug. “You should’ve been on your way already.”

 

“I know, but she wanted to kiss you goodbye.” Clint followed Lila down the porch steps, twirling his keys around one finger on their carabiner.

 

“Where’s she going?” Wanda asked curiously, adjusting her grip on the shopping bags.

 

“Birthday party,” Clint said, making a face and indicating the bright pink gift bag in his other hand. “Twenty screaming little girls on a sugar high.”

 

Natasha snorted, scooping Lila up as she turned to her and held up her arms pointedly. “You don’t even have to stay for the sugar high part,” she said, turning her head to kiss Lila’s cheek and breathing in the fruity scent of her conditioner as Lila hugged her tight around the neck.

 

Clint shrugged. “Yeah, but I’ve got transport both ways. Come on, Lila, let’s go.”

 

“I have to hug Wanda, too!” Lila declared. Wanda blinked in surprise, but leaned down so that she could put an arm around Lila’s shoulders as the Lila flung her arms around her waist. “Okay, I’m ready.”

 

“To the truck with you, then.” Clint kissed Laura’s cheek as he passed her, and then caught Natasha’s eye. “Got a phone call for you, earlier,” he said. “Give your grandpa a call. He misses you.”

 

Lila paused in climbing into Clint’s truck, peering over her shoulder. “Auntie Nat has a grandpa?”

 

“Everybody has a grandpa,” Clint told her. “Don’t be nosy.”

 

Lila stuck her tongue out at him, but climbed into the back seat. Clint checked the seat belt on her booster seat, then waved briefly at them before climbing into the driver’s seat, heading down the driveway.

 

“She’s going to be an absolute terror when she gets home,” Laura said, unstrapping Nate’s car seat and lifting it out of the car. “She has no self-control when it comes to sugar.”

 

Natasha raised her eyebrows, following her into the house. “Isn’t it the parent’s job at those parties to keep that under control?”

 

Laura rolled her eyes. “Becky Reynolds’s mother has no control over her own kids, let alone anyone else’s.” She paused, looking at Natasha. “ _Don’t_ tell her I said that.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Natasha glanced at Wanda. “Need any help with those?”

 

Wanda shook his head. “No, I was just going to put them in the kitchen.”

 

“I’ll come with you,” Laura told her, setting Nate’s carseat down on the floor. “He’ll sleep a bit more. Let Natasha go make whatever phone call she needs to make.”

 

Natasha shot her a grateful glance. “I’ll be in the office,” she said. “Give me a yell if you need me.”

 

Laura waved her off, taking one bag from Wanda and ushering her into the kitchen, and Natasha shook her head in amusement, heading into the study and closing the door behind her. She plopped down at Clint’s desk, opening his laptop and typing a string of numbers--the coordinates of the lake where they’d gotten married, because Clint was a huge sap and Natasha never tired of giving him shit for it--and waited for the desktop to load.

 

She clicked the video call icon once it loaded, and then selected Steve’s name from the contact list. The video screen opened, displaying the dialing phone, and Natasha rested her chin in one hand, pushing the wheels of the chair back and forth across the floor. “Hey, Gramps,” she greeted, when Steve’s face appeared on the screen.

 

Steve’s friendly smile dissolved into a long-suffering groan. “I thought he was kidding when he said that he was going to tell you your grandpa called.”

 

Natasha grinned. “You should know Clint better than that by now, Rogers.”

 

“I hope his kids get Laura’s sense of humor,” Steve grumbled. “She seemed nice.”

 

“She’s very nice,” Natasha said, letting her gaze drift to the framed family photos on Clint’s desk. One of them, a photo of Laura and Cooper when Cooper was just over a year old, sitting on the porch with the summer sun painting a golden glow on their cheeks, caught her eye, and she brushed a finger over it. “What did you need me for?”

 

“I wanted to check in on Wanda.” Steve leaned forward, and Natasha realized that he was in his suite at the training center, sitting on his sofa. She’d spent plenty of time there, debriefing a day of training over pizza and beer. “See how she was doing.”

 

“She’s doing great, actually,” Natasha said, drawing her hand away from the frame and folding her arms on the desk.

 

Steve raised an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”

 

She shook her head. “Not surprised.” She tapped her fingers on her arm, thinking. “Clint knew she’d do well here,” she said finally. “And it’s not like I disagreed with him. I was just nervous, I guess. About having her here with Laura and the kids.”

 

“You were okay with having all of us there after South Africa,” Steve pointed out. He paused. “Not that it was really your call.”

 

Natasha bristled, clenching her hand into a fist, then forced herself to relax. It wasn’t like he knew any better. “That was different,” she said. “We were stable.”

 

He looked steadily at her. “Even Bruce?”

 

She managed not to flinch. “Even Bruce,” she said. “He wouldn’t have had the strength to turn again, he was exhausted.” She picked up a stress ball sitting on the desk and rolled it under her hand. “I don’t know, I guess with what had just happened back with you guys, I was worried. And I wasn’t sure how she’d react to the baby.”

 

Steve sobered. “Named for Pietro,” he said, and Natasha suppressed a smile. Always a quick thinker, Steve. “Didn’t think of that.” He was still for a moment, coiled strength under military calm, and then spoke again. “But you said she’s doing good.”

 

“She is.” Natasha squeezed the stress ball in time with her pulse, gentle, controlled movements. “The sun and the quiet are good for her, and Laura’s just about made her part of the family.” Her lips twitched as she tried not to smile. “You’ll be lucky if the kids let her leave at this point. Lila’s taken a real liking to her.”

 

“Well, tell them they can’t keep her forever, we’re gonna need her back eventually.” He paused. “We’re going to need you back, too.”

 

“I know.” Natasha released the ball, looking back up at him. “Don’t worry, Rogers, I won’t stay here forever.”

 

He snorted. “Didn’t think I was implying you would,” he said, but he smiled, not a wry smirk, but an actual smile, kind and soft. “But you look good, Nat,” he said quietly. “Better than when you left. Happier.”

 

“Yeah, well.” She returned the smile. “Maybe the quiet’s been good for me, too.”

 

“Just the quiet?”

 

There was no challenge in the question. Natasha raised her eyebrows anyway. “What are you asking, Steve?”

 

“I saw you with Clint’s kids when we were at the farm,” he said. “How happy they were to see you.” He held her gaze. “How happy Laura was to see you, too.”

 

“Steve,” Natasha said, uncertain, but he shook his head.

 

“I’m not trying to imply anything,” he said, holding up a hand. “I’m just saying, you look…” He hesitated, as if looking for the right words, and then shrugged one shoulder. “Like you did before SHIELD went down. Like you know who you are, and you’re right where you want to be.” He smiled, and it was just this side of sad. “You haven’t looked like that in a long time.”

 

Natasha took a breath, but she didn’t bother to try and correct him. There was a reason Steve was her closest friend outside of this house. He saw her, not any of the characters she pasted onto her face, and didn’t play along with any of her games. “You sound more sure of it than I feel,” she admitted.

 

Steve’s lips twitched upwards. “I know the feeling,” he said.

 

“Yeah, I bet you do.” She picked up the stress ball again, running her thumb over the smooth surface, and glanced up, meeting his eyes in the camera. “I really look like I know who I am here?”

 

The question came out smaller and more uncertain than she meant it to, but there was no judgment on Steve’s face when he nodded. “You really do, Romanoff.”

 

She swallowed. “How do you know?”

 

There was a tap at the door before Steve could answer, and Laura stuck her head into the office. “Natasha?” She faltered, seeing Steve on the screen. “Oh. Hi, Captain.”

 

“Just Steve is fine, Mrs. Barton,” Steve said.

 

“Only if you call me Laura,” she said, flashing him a quick smile, and then looked back at Natasha. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but is there any way you could take the baby for a bit? Clint’s not back yet, and he’s driving me up the wall.”

 

She gave Natasha the soft, guilty look that she only wore when one of the kids was exhausting her and it was making her feel like a bad mother, and Natasha softened. “I’ll be right there,” she said. “Give him to Wanda, you go lie down.” She turned back to the screen. “Steve, I’ve got to go.”

 

“Of course,” he said, and then, “Nat?” Halfway to her feet, Natasha paused, looking at him. Steve smiled. “That look you gave Laura when she came in just now? That’s how I know.”

 

Natasha opened her mouth to respond, and then stopped herself, exhaling a soft laugh as his words sank in. “I’ll talk to you soon, Steve.”

 

“That’s Gramps to you, Romanoff,” he said. Natasha laughed out loud and Steve grinned, ending the call on his end as Natasha closed the laptop.

 

Wanda met her at the office door, bouncing a fussing Nate in her arms. “Was that Captain Rogers?”

 

“It was.” Natasha held out her arms, and Wanda passed the baby over with a slightly grateful look. “He says hi.”

 

Wanda looked curiously at her. “Is that all he said?”

 

Natasha raised her eyebrows, slipping the tip of her pinky finger into Nate’s mouth. “Why do you ask?”

 

Wanda shrugged. “No reason, really,” she said. “It’s just...you’re smiling.”

 

“Oh.” Natasha looked down at Nate, who had finally started to settle, suckling on Natasha’s fingertip. He opened his eyes and met her gaze, giving her a toothless smile around her finger, and she felt her lips curve. “I guess I am.”

 

**2008**

 

Laura has her hands full with Cooper, who has decided to make it abundantly clear to her that he has no intention of putting on his pajamas, when the phone rings. Grateful for even a brief reprieve from the terrible twos, Laura scoops him up and onto her hip and heads down the hall to the bedroom to grab her phone from the bedside table. “Hello?”

 

“It’s me.”

 

Clint’s voice is recognizable even through the phone speakers, and Cooper immediately stops attempting to squirm out of her grasp. “Daddy!” he says gleefully, and reaches for the phone.

 

“Cooper, no,” Laura tells him firmly. Two words had been enough from Clint to let her know that something is wrong. Something in her tone must make it click for Cooper, too, because he sobers, sticking his thumb into his mouth and settling against her, putting his head on her shoulder. Laura kisses his head gratefully. “Clint?”

 

“I’m here.”

 

Laura sits down on the bed, arranging Cooper on her lap so she can support him with one arm. “What is it?”

 

“It’s Nat.”

 

He sounds weary and pained, more so than she’s ever heard him, and Laura sits down on the bed, feeling suddenly weak-need. “No,” she whispers, hearing the fear in her own voice and trying to swallow it down to keep Cooper from noticing. He’s Clint’s child through and through; nothing slips by him. “Clint, please tell me she’s not…”

 

“No.” He’s quiet for a long moment, long enough that Laura’s heart starts to pound against her chest. “They reset her,” he says finally. “One of her old handlers. He found her, and he reset her.”

 

The tips of Laura’s fingers go numb, and she tightens her grip on the phone. Cooper blinks up at her, all curious big brown eyes, and Laura tries to smile reassuringly at him. “I don’t understand,” she says carefully. “What does that mean?”

 

“They got her on video,” he says, voice dull. “Her and Yelena, taking out a dozen museum guards in Sao Paulo. The camera caught her face, and she was just--she wasn’t there, Laura. It was her body and her face, but she wasn’t there.”

 

Laura tries to digest that through her spinning head. She remembers the name _Yelena_ ; Natasha has cried it out in her nightmares, and Laura knows she nearly killed Clint once, years ago. “Could she...Could she be pretending? Trying to get to Yelena?”

 

“No.” There’s no uncertainty in his voice. “I saw the video, Laura. Even if she wanted to get to Yelena, she wouldn’t--” He breaks off, and a few beats of silence pass before he speaks again. “She’s not pretending.”

 

“But then what…” The other shoe falls. “SHIELD found her?”

 

“They don’t have eyes on her yet. They have me and May collecting intel.”

 

Laura’s heart leaps into her throat. “Clint,” she whispers. “What do they want you to do?”

 

“It’s a kill order.”

 

She tightens her arm around Cooper instinctively. “Mommy,” he protests, squirming, and she forces herself to relax, kissing his head in apology.

 

“You can’t do that,” she tells Clint. “You won’t, right?” He’s silent for a long time, and Laura feels alarm mount in her chest. “ _Clint_.”

 

“I don’t know, Laura.” He sounds tired and defeated. “I don’t know what to do. She wouldn’t want...She wouldn’t want to be their weapon again.”

 

“You can get her back.” She says it like she’s sure, but before the words are even out of her mouth, she realizes that she _is_ sure, deep in her heart. If anyone can get Natasha back from wherever those people have locked away her mind, it’s Clint. “You have to.”

 

“I don’t know how.”

 

It comes out small, and Laura wishes that she could reach out and touch him, soothe the fear from his voice. It’s not fear of being hurt, she knows, it’s the fear of failing Natasha, of letting her down. “You’ll figure it out,” she says. “You always do, Clint. When it comes to Natasha, you always think of something. You’ll bring her home.”

 

“What if I can’t?”

 

Laura swallows hard. “Well, you’d better,” she says. “Because I’m pregnant, and I need you. _Both_ of you.”

 

Clint pulls in a sharp breath. “Laura,” he says, and then, “When? How long?”

 

“Just a few weeks.” She’s been saving the positive pregnancy test wrapped in a tissue in the bathroom drawer for two of them. “I wanted to wait until you were both home to tell you.”

 

He laughs, and it sounds faintly damp. “I bet,” he says, and she smiles despite herself. With Cooper, she’d announced the pregnancy by buying Clint and Natasha WORLD’S BEST PARENT mugs in the most garish shades of purple and orange she could find. She likes a bit of drama every now and then. “God, Laura. Another baby.”

 

“Another baby that’s going to need all of us,” she says firmly. “So you’d better get her back, Clint.”

 

“I will.” He’s quiet for a moment--probably still digesting, she thinks; they’d only decided to start trying for a second baby a little over a month ago--before he speaks again. “Will you do something for me?”

 

Laura nods, realizes he can’t see her, and says, “Anything.”

 

“Take Cooper and just--get out of town for a little while. It doesn’t matter where you go, just...Somewhere safe. Somewhere we wouldn’t think to look for you.”

 

She catches her breath. “Clint,” she says. “Do you really think she’d…”

 

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if she remembers you. But we can’t--”

 

He breaks off, but Laura knows what he would have said. “We can’t take the chance,” she finishes for him. She looks down at Cooper, sucking contentedly on his thumb and seemingly entertained with curling and uncurling his toes in his socks, and feels her heart clench in her chest. “I’ll find somewhere.”

 

“Thank you,” he says, and the relief is audible in his voice. “I’ll try to--I’ll send you updates. When I can.”

 

Laura closes her eyes. “Okay,” she says. “Be _careful_ , Clint.”

 

“I will.” He’s quiet for a moment, but she can hear him breathing, slow and even. “I’m--I’m really happy, Laura. About the baby. I am.”

 

“I know you are, love.” She smiles despite herself, even though he’s not there to see it. “And Nat will be, too. So you’d better bring her home so we can tell her.”

 

He laughs, low and painful. “Yes, ma’am,” he says. There’s a scuffling sound, voices she can’t make out, and Clint says something muffled in response before coming back to her. “I have to go, Laur. I’ll call when I can.”

 

Laura tightens her grip on the phone. “I love you,” she says, feeling suddenly anxious. “So much, love.”

 

“I know.” His voice is gentled. “I love you, too. Kiss Coop for me.”

 

“I will,” she says, and waits for him to hang up. He doesn’t say _goodbye_. He never does.

 

Cooper looks up at her. “Daddy bye-bye?” he asks, curious.

 

“For a little while,” she tells him, kissing his forehead. “Mama Tasha, too. But they’ll come home.”

 

He smiles eagerly. “For kisses!” he declares, and Laura laughs through the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

 

“Yes, sweetheart,” she says, gathering him close. “For kisses.”

 

Cooper puts his hands on her shoulders. “Mommy bedtime?” he asks.

 

“Not just yet,” she says. She smiles gently at him, smoothing his dark hair back. “We’re going to put on our pjs and pack some clothes and get Mookey. And then we’re going to go on a trip.”

 

His face lights up. “Ride in the car?” he asks, excitedly.

 

“Yes, love,” she says, swallowing the lump in her throat. This is her job, she tells herself; this is her role to play in keeping their family safe. Clint will get Natasha back, and Laura will keep their children far from harm’s way--whatever or whoever that harm may be. She steels her shoulders, and gentles her smile. “We’re going for a ride in the car.”

 

**2008**

 

<Search parameters defined: “Natalia_Romanova”>

 

<Search: Running>

 

<Search: Complete>

 

<Results: 0>

 

Clint leans back in his chair, resisting the urge to put a fist through his computer screen in frustration. He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes in an attempt to ward off a headache. “Fuck,” he mutters.

 

It’s been three weeks since Natasha had her switch flipped by Ivan Petrovich, who Clint personally can’t wait to find and kill. Preferably very slowly. Since then, both she and Yelena have fallen entirely off-grid, despite SHIELD funneling an absurd amount of money into finding them. Clint’s reached out to as many of Natasha’s old contacts as he can find, but so far they’ve all come back to him with the same answer: If a Black Widow doesn’t want to be found, no agency, however large, is going to find her.

 

Bullshit, Clint had told them.

 

Now, he’s not so sure.

 

“Clint,” May says.

 

He glances up. They’ve commandeered one of the small administrative offices with two desks pushed back to back, and across from him, May’s staring at her computer with deadly focus. “What?” he asks, straightening up in his seat. “You find something?”

 

She gives a curt nod. “Facial recognition software pulled a match for Belova off a CCTV camera in North London,” she says, already typing again.

 

Clint’s on his feet before he realizes he’s moving, coming around both desks to look over her shoulder. A grainy image of Yelena, half-turned and glancing over her shoulder, is frozen on May’s screen. “Good find,” he says. “Where in North London?”

 

“I’m checking,” she says, fingers flying over the keys as she traces the image back to its source. Clint watches, curling one hand over the back of her chair and resisting the urge to backseat hack. He’d done it once before, and she’d nearly stabbed him.

 

( _May_ calls it “nearly,” anyway. The scar on Clint’s thumb from where he’d barely jerked his hand away from her knife in time disagrees.)

 

“Got it,” May says, and then spends several seconds doing what Clint assumes is cursing colorfully in what he guesses is Mandarin before looking at him. “It’s a hospital.”

 

The bottom of Clint’s stomach drops out. “Fuck,” he says, eloquently. “We got any shots of her beyond that one? Anything that might tell us what she’s doing there?”

 

He doesn’t say, _anything that might lead us to Romanova?_ because he doesn’t want the answer.

 

May shakes her head. “Not that I can see.” She pulls up another coding window, typing rapidly. “I’m setting up a search for any news alerts on the hospital,” she says. “It’ll send any results right to our phones.” She hits “enter” with a sharp jab of her finger, and then motions him back so she can stand. “Come on.”

 

Clint pulls his holster off the back of his chair, buckling it on and following her out the door. “Where are we going?”

 

“To tell Coulson to get us a plane,” May says, glancing at him over her shoulder. “And then to get guns. A lot of guns.”

 

The flight from DC to London takes seven hours in a SHIELD jet, but to Clint it feels like an eternity. He spends most of the flight pacing the jet, trying, and usually failing, to practice deep breathing and to keep the panic bubbling under his veins from showing on his face. May, who uses the flight time to dismantle, clean, and reassemble a truly horrifying number of firearms, watches him thoughtfully, and Coulson starts twitching by the end of the flight.

 

“Barton,” he says, when they touch down in Heathrow. “A word?”

 

Clint pauses in buckling his armguard. “Sir?”

 

Coulson crosses his arms, the line of his suit not even wrinkling with the motion. “You’ve been on edge since this assignment came up,” he says flatly, going right to the point. “What the hell is going on with you?”

 

“I’m not--” Clint breaks off. The look Coulson’s giving him clearly says that he doesn’t buy Clint’s bullshit for a second. He sighs. “I don’t like it, okay? Pulling out the kill order on these two.” He pauses, and amends. “I mean, Belova, fine, the woman’s a fucking nutjob, but Romanova? From what we can tell looking at her jobs over the last ten years, she’s only taken out the same kind of people I did. It’s only since this Petrovich guy showed up that she went rogue. It doesn’t seem right, taking her out for getting brainwashed.”

 

“She’s a risk, Barton,” Coulson says. “Even if-- _if_ \--you could break her programming, if Petrovich could trigger her once, he could do it again.”

 

Clint shrugs. “So we take out Petrovich.”

 

Coulson gives him an exasperated look. “We don’t even know where Petrovich _is_.”

 

“Belova’s a loose canon,” Clint says. “If she’s in London, he is, too.”

 

Coulson hesitates, and for a brief, hopeful moment, Clint actually thinks he’ll agree to let Clint bring Natasha in. Even as he’s thinking of something to say to push him over the edge, his phone buzzes in his pocket, and an instant later, May’s vibrates on the tray table next to her.

 

“It’s a news alert on the hospital,” May says, glancing at her screen and swiping her thumb across it. Clint goes still, unable to make himself reach for his own phone as he watches her face go slowly blank. “Shit,” she says, looking up at them with barely-veiled anger clouding her dark eyes.

 

Coulson frowns. “What is it?”

 

“There was a fire,” she says, tossing her phone to Coulson, who catches it one-handed. “Took out half a private wing.”

 

Coulson scans the article. “Casualties?” Clint asks, hating the hopefulness that creeps into his voice.

 

May rolls her eyes. “It’s a hospital, Barton,” she says. “You think the people in those beds just got up and ran when the alarms went off?”

 

Clint tenses. “You don’t know the wing was full,” he says. “They could have been after someone specific, a guy like Petrovich must have enemies--”

 

Coulson interrupts him, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Barton,” he says, looking genuinely regretful. “I’m with Fury with this one. These two are too dangerous to stay loose. We need to take them out.” He tosses May’s phone back to her, and turns to Clint, his eyes calculating. “I need to know that you can do your job.”

 

Clint sets his jaw, and then, just as he’s about to tell Coulson where he can shove his job, he remembers a crucial detail of his deal with Fury, and settles. “I’ll fulfill my contract,” he says. “Sir.”

 

Coulson’s eyelids flicker briefly, like he can tell that Clint’s full of shit and is ready to call him on it, but he just gives Clint a curt nod. “Fine,” he says. “May, what do you have for us?”

 

May’s on her feet, her collection of guns tucked away in various places around her body, scanning her phone. “We got lucky,” she says. “CCTV managed to catch both of them within the last hour. We’ve got Belova twice, heading further north, and it looks like they got Romanova once, getting on the tube heading toward the West End.” She looks at Coulson. “Orders?”

 

Coulson is quiet for a moment, thinking. “We won’t get another shot at this,” he says. “We’ll split up. SHIELD has a safe house in Central London, I’ll set up there. May, you go after Belova; Barton, you have Romanova. Shoot to kill if you can, but don’t engage in close contact.” He gives May a significant look, and she has the grace to grin--she has about as much respect for following rules as Clint. “Check-ins every half hour, on the half-hour.”

 

“Yes, sir,” May says, and leads the way off the jet and away from the airstrip. At the front of the airport, she pauses, looking at Clint, and he has a brief feeling of uncomfortable familiarity before realizing that the look she’s giving him is the same one Laura fixes him with when she suspects he’s lying to her. On May’s face, it’s much less affectionate. All she says, though, is, “Don’t die, Barton. I’d hate to train up a new partner.”

 

Clint snorts. “Same to you, May,” he says. She flashes him the hint of a grin, and flags down a cab, sliding in. He closes the door after her, waits until the cab pulls away, and legs it to the nearest tube entrance.

 

He knows where Natasha’s headed, and he doesn’t have much time to move if he wants to beat her there.

 

**2015**

 

“Bad news,” Clint announced, coming through the front door with Lila on his hip. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, her face hidden in the crook between his neck and shoulder, and he closed the door behind him with his foot. “Someone ate a little too much sugar.”

 

Laura put her Uno cards down on the table, giving Cooper a brief, apologetic look before climbing to her feet. “Is she okay?”

 

Clint nodded, meeting her in the foyer. “Just a little sick to her stomach,” he said, keeping his voice soft as Laura reached up to stroke Lila’s hair gently.

 

Lila lifted her head and gave Laura a miserable look. “I threw up, Mommy.”

 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Laura said, rubbing her back gently and resisting the urge to sigh. Seeing your child sick was one of the hardest parts of parenthood, but in her opinion, refraining from giving an _I told you so_ lecture at times like this was on the list, too. She glanced up at Clint. “Why didn’t Tara call us?”

 

“Apparently she was fine until about five minutes before I got there,” he said, shrugging the shoulder Lila wasn’t pushing her face back into. “Then she did call, but I was already just about there.” He scanned the room, gave Cooper a lopsided grin--Cooper waved back, looking like he couldn’t decide whether to be irritated or sympathetic--and then glanced back at Laura, one eyebrow raised. “Where’re Nat and Wanda?”

 

“They took Nate out for a walk around the farm. He’s been fussy all day.” Laura brushed her fingers over Lila’s hair. “What do you think we should do with munchkin here?”

 

“I was thinking I’d take her upstairs and run her a bath,” Clint said. He smiled wryly at her. “It always seems to help you.”

 

Laura snorted. “Like you haven’t climbed in with me a time or two,” she said, tiptoeing up to kiss his cheek. “If you can bring her upstairs, I’ll take over for you.”

 

Clint shook his head, boosting Lila a little further up on his hip. “I’ll do it,” he said, nodding toward the table. “You finish your game.”

 

Laura arched one eyebrow, but shrugged and nodded, kissing Lila’s shoulder and then stepping back so that Clint could move past her to carry Lila upstairs. She sat back down at the table with Cooper, picking up her cards again. She peered at the deck between them. “Did you move, sweetheart?”

 

Cooper grinned at her. “Nope,” he said, and put a card down.

 

“A draw four?” Laura complained, mock-glaring at him. “You’re grounded.”

 

He snickered. “I am not, Mom.”

 

“Try me, kid,” she grumbled, pulling another four cards into her hand. “Ha,” she said, throwing down a draw two. Cooper stuck his tongue out at her, and picked up two cards of his own. “Sorry I ditched you there.”

 

“It’s okay.” Cooper put a card down and then looked up at her. “Is Lila gonna be okay?”

 

“She’ll be fine,” Laura said. “She just ate a bit too much cake and bounced around too much.”

 

“That was dumb of her.”

 

“Be nice,” Laura chided gently, even if she did agree. “You did the same thing when you were her age.”

 

“I did not,” Cooper said. “I was smarter.”

 

Laura snorted. “You,” she said, “have your mother’s sweet tooth and your father’s lack of impulse control. You never had a chance, kiddo.”

 

Cooper made a face, looking at his cards, and then glanced up at her, his expression more curious. “Can I ask you a question?”

 

Laura raised her eyebrows. “Of course, love.”

 

He chewed his lower lip for a few moments, his eyes thoughtful. “How come Aunt Nat always leaves?”

 

It wasn’t the question Laura was expecting--and not a question she’d heard from Cooper in years. She paused before answering, running her fingers over the smooth paper of her cards. “I think that’s probably a question that Aunt Nat could answer better than I can,” she said carefully. “But I think...I think she worries that this isn’t the right place for her. She had a hard life growing up, and I think that sometimes she’s afraid that she might forget herself, and do something wrong.”

 

Cooper’s brows shot up, such a perfect miniature of Clint’s own expression of surprise, so rarely seen, that Laura nearly smiled. “Aunt Nat’s a hero,” he said, frowning deeply. “She always does the right thing.”

 

“She always tries to, sweetheart,” Laura said, keeping her voice gentle. “But that doesn’t stop her from worrying that she might--” She caught herself, and broke off.

 

Cooper’s brow furrowed. “Might what?” Laura said nothing, and Cooper leaned forward, his eyes bright and earnest. “Might _what_ , Mom?”

 

Laura sighed. His father’s determination, too, she thought. “She’s afraid she might hurt you,” she said quietly. “You or your sister or your brother.”

 

“She wouldn’t,” Cooper said firmly. “Aunt Nat loves us. She would _never_ hurt us.”

 

There wasn’t a hint of doubt in his voice, just fierce determination. Apparently unwavering faith in Natasha Romanoff ran in the Barton family. Laura smiled gently, reaching across the table and curling her hand around Cooper’s wrist. “I know that, love,” she said. “And you know that, and Dad knows that. We just need to wait until Aunt Nat knows it, too.”

 

Cooper hesitated, and then nodded. “Okay,” he said. “How do we help her figure it out?”

 

“I’m afraid that’s the hardest part, sweetheart,” she said quietly. “We need to wait for her to figure it out by herself.”

 

His face fell. “Oh,” he said, looking down at the table, and Laura reached out with her other hand, tipping his chin up.

 

“Hey,” she said. Cooper looked at her. “What do you say we go to the kitchen and make your little sister some ginger tea?”

 

Cooper gave her a small smile. “Okay,” he said. “And some toast, right? I always feel better when you make toast.”

 

“And toast,” Laura agreed, getting to her feet.

 

“Okay,” Cooper said, putting the cards away and leading the way to the kitchen. “I’ll get the ginger.”

 

“That’s my boy,” Laura said, ruffling his hair gently. He smiled at her, bright enough to light up the room, and Laura couldn’t help smiling back.

 

 _Everyone believes in you, Tasha,_ she thought.

 

_When are you going to start believing in yourself?_

 

**2008**

 

Natalia’s footsteps are silent on the hardwood floors of the hallway, moving swiftly toward the door of Apartment 2E. She’s had this safehouse since the early eighties and it’s never let her down, and after the hospital fire, Petrovich had told her and Yelena to scatter.

 

She doesn’t know where Yelena’s gone. It’s safer that way, and she wouldn’t trust Yelena to come with her anyway.

 

The apartment has a digital lock by the door, and she flips it open, rapidly keying in the code and turning the knob before the light even turns green. She closes the door behind her, turns the light on, and freezes.

 

There’s a man in her apartment.

 

He’s sitting on the couch, leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He’s dressed in black, cargo pants and a black turtleneck that does nothing to disguise the coil of muscle and power underneath. His hands are empty, but there’s a gun strapped to his thigh, and what looks like a bow--an actual, bow-and-arrow _bow_ \--resting against his leg. He has a broad, surprisingly kind face, with a blocky nose that’s been broken at least once and a spiked sweep of dark blonde hair.

 

He looks at her, and his green-blue eyes are soft and sad. Despite her instincts, Natalia stills. She’s met her fair of assassins. None of them have ever looked at her like that. “Natasha,” he says quietly.

 

The moment breaks. Natalia flinches at the name and pulls her gun, aiming it between his eyes with steady hands. “Who are you?”

 

Something flickers in his eyes, something dangerously close to heartbreak. “You don’t know?”

 

Natalia doesn’t waver. “Obviously not.”

 

He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s thinking. When he speaks, he’s quiet. “I’m Clint,” he says. “Clint Barton.”

 

She flicks the safety off her gun. “Am I supposed to know you, Clint Barton?”

 

“We go back a long time.” Barton smiles, a soft, sad curl of his lips. “We worked together.”

 

There’s too much emotion in his voice for that. Natalia narrows her eyes. She doesn’t know how much Ivan wiped away from her mind, but Barton looks at her like she’s something precious, something he treasures. “And what else?”

 

“And some other stuff.” His smile turns slightly wry. “But I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”

 

Natalia raises one eyebrow. “Try me,” she says flatly. She’ll keep him talking until she’s got all the intel he has, and then she’ll take him out. “I’ve heard a lot of strange things.”

 

Barton cocks his head to one side. “Fine,” he says, shrugging one shoulder. “I’m your husband.”

 

She’s not sure what she’d been expecting, but it’s not that. She snorts. “You’re not my type.”

 

“Sure I am.” He grins at her, almost playful. “You got tired of all those rich, fancy mobsters your handlers made you sleep with all those years, and decided to slum with me for awhile. Then you decided you liked me.” He pauses. “I might be skipping some stuff.”

 

Natalia flexes her fingers delicately around her gun. “Let me rephrase,” she says. “You’re _definitely_ not my type. And you’re here to kill me.”

 

Barton folds his hands together, and she glances down at them automatically. He’s not wearing a wedding band, but he runs his thumb over the place where one would sit, an almost unconscious gesture. “Technically, yes,” he admits. “My boss wants me to. But I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to.”

 

“Get used to disappointment,” she says. “A Black Widow doesn’t surrender.”

 

Barton flinches. “You’re not a Black Widow anymore, Nat,” he says. “You haven’t been for a long time.”

 

There’s that familiarity again, and for some reason, it doesn’t come with a flicker of anger, but rather a strange curl of warmth in the back of her mind. Natalia shoves it away and raises her gun a millimeter higher. “My name is Natalia,” she says. “And you don’t know anything about me.”

 

“I know more than you think,” Barton says, leaning forward, his expression serious but earnest. “I know they took you from your family when you were a little girl. I know they trained you to kill, to infiltrate, to interrogate. I know that they hurt you, but that you never, never stopped fighting.”

 

His gaze fixes on hers, steady and clear and intense. The warmth in the back of her mind gets stronger, like something is trying to get out, and Natalia tries to push it back down again, but it resists. Barton doesn’t look away from her. “I know you fought, Natasha,” he says softly. “I know you always fought, and that you took the first chance you could to get away. You broke your conditioning and killed your handlers, and you got away. You _got away_.”

 

Natalia finds herself faltering, just barely, at the earnest intensity in his voice. “I…” She shakes herself, pushing the hesitation back. “No one breaks Red Room conditioning,” she says flatly. “No one.”

 

Barton lifts his chin. “No one but you,” he says, leaning forward. “Natasha, you did it once. You can do it again. And you can come home.”

 

She swallows. “A Black Widow doesn’t have a home.”

 

“You do,” Barton says. “You’ve got a home, with me, and with--” He falters, just for a moment, and then keeps talking. “With people who love you. You need to come home, Nat. We need you. Cooper needs you.”

 

Natalia frowns. “Who the hell is Cooper?”

 

Barton smiles faintly. “Our son.”

 

Any credibility she’s given him disappears. “You almost had me believing you, Barton,” she says coolly. “I can’t have children. If you really knew me, you’d know that.”

 

He shakes his head. “You didn’t give birth to him,” he says. “Doesn’t mean he’s not yours.”

 

A small, hopeful part of her wants to demand proof. She shoves that part away. A Black Widow only mothers death. “We’re done talking,” she says. “If you tell me who you work for and how you found me, I’ll kill you quick.”

 

Barton’s lips twitch. “I work for SHIELD,” he says. “You used to know that.”

 

“According to you, I used to know a lot of things.” She doesn’t lower her gun, but she can’t make herself shoot it, either. “How did you find me?”

 

“Like I said,” Barton says. “I’m your husband. I know all your safehouses.” He nods at a fluffy purple blanket draped over the arm of the couch that she doesn’t remember. “I bought you that blanket.”

 

“It’s hideous,” she says flatly.

 

He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You said that when I bought it, too.”

 

Natalia brings up her gun. “Good last words,” she says. “Goodbye, Clint Barton.”

 

She pulls the trigger.

 

Barton dives.

 

The bullet strikes the couch where his head had been an instant before, but Natalia doesn’t bother to congratulate herself on her aim before she’s tumbling away, rolling behind an armchair to take cover. Barton is on the other side of the sofa, fitting an arrow to his bow, and she manages, with some effort, not to roll her eyes. “Is this your thing?” she asks, checking the clip of her gun to assess her bullet count before sliding it back into place. “This Robin Hood persona?”

 

“It works for me,” Barton says, strangely playful. “You’ve never complained before.” He’s quiet for a moment, an almost thoughtful silence. “Okay, that’s not true, but it’s usually a very friendly complaining.”

 

Now, Natalia does roll her eyes. “You talk too much,” she says.

 

“That, you have complained about,” Barton admits, and she sees him raise his bow. “Come on, Nat, you don’t really want to shoot me, do you?”

 

“I really do,” Natalia says, and kicks the armchair toward him. It falls over and knocks him off-guard, and she leaps forward after it, gun raised. Barton recovers quickly, swinging his foot up and knocking the gun out of her hand, and she swears even as she tumbles forward to tackle him to the ground.

 

Natalia lands the way she wants to, her elbow point-down into his solar plexus, and grins at the grunt of pain that escapes him. Barton twists, one fist coming up to strike her jaw. Her head snaps back hard, and she tastes blood in her mouth. She turns her head to spit it out, and looks back at Barton to find him grinning at her, his own teeth bloody.

 

She could kill him, she realizes; she could kill him easily, but for some reason, she doesn’t.

 

She _can’t_.

 

“No,” she hisses, and punches him hard in the face. Barton’s head jerks to the side but he rolls into the punch, twisting out from underneath her and pushing her back. Natalia grunts and hits the floor head first, the shock of the landing sending a jolt of pain through her spine. She winces, rolling back up into a crouch and pulling a knife from her boot, twirling it in her fingers once and then lunging forward, not giving him time to recover his own position.

 

Barton falls backward with a sharp noise of surprise, but he manages to avoid the downward stab of her knife by catching her wrist. He jerks upward, catching her in the soft spot under her chin with the handle of the knife. It’s not lethal, but it hurts, and Natalia growls at him, managing not to bite her tongue. She twists her wrist out of his grip and jams her other elbow into the side of his head, and sees his eyes go briefly dazed before he recovers himself and brings his knee around to catch her in the ribs.

 

The impact knocks her off him, and he rolls forward to pin her, putting his weight on her lower body and pinning her arms with one hand. His face is bloody but determined, and Natalia twists briefly, struggling against his grip but finding him stronger than she expected.

 

 _Fine_ , she thinks. Time for new tactics. She widens her eyes, pitches her voice scared and uncertain, and says, “Clint?”

 

He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Nat?”

 

Natalia blinks furiously, forcing tears to well up in her eyes. “Clint, Ivan, he--he reset me, and I couldn’t fight him--”

 

“Nat, I know,” he says. He doesn’t let her up, but something uncertain flickers in his eyes. “It’s okay.”

 

“It’s not.” She shakes her head, letting the tears spill down over her cheeks. “You have to kill me, Clint. He did this to me, and I can’t let him do it again.”

 

“I’m not gonna kill you, Nat.” He eases back, just slightly, just enough that she can twist her wrist in his grip. “We’re gonna figure this out. Together. Like always.”

 

“No,” she says, her voice shaking. “We can’t, Clint. You have to kill me. You have to. It’s the only way.”

 

Barton shakes his head. “Not a chance,” he says. “Nat, we’re going to figure out a way to--”

 

He’s loosened his grip just enough, and Natalia moves, pulling her wrist free of his grip and pulling the smaller blade tucked into her thigh holster, jamming it into his belly in one swift, furious movement. Barton’s eyes go wide with pain and he makes a soft, surprised sound, falling to one side in a crumpled heap, just inches from the quiver of arrows he’d dropped earlier.  
  


Natalia rolls to her feet, jerking the knife free and holding it out the ready. “I guess some of your story was true after all,” she says quietly, as Barton shudders once, blood already flowing over the fingers he’s curled over the wound. “If you didn’t care about me, you’d never have let your guard down.” She smiles, finding herself almost sad and not knowing why. “Pity. You were almost likeable.”

 

Barton laughs, a low, bitter sound. “Yeah,” he gasps out. “It’s too bad, I guess.”

 

She picks her gun up off the floor, cocking it and kneeling down beside him, laying the barrel against his temple. “Goodbye, Agent Barton,” she says.

 

He looks up at her, blue-green eyes soft with pain and heartbreak. “Goodbye, Black Widow,” he says, and moves, pulling an arrow from his quiver and jamming it into her calf.

 

Electric voltage shoots through her and she gasps, dropping the gun and collapsing onto her side as she jerks. The electric output rockets through her nerves and into her brain, and in the tiny box where she’s been locked away, Natasha rips herself free.

 

She sucks in a deep breath as the voltage stops and she lays for a moment, panting. “What the actual fuck, Clint,” she gasps. “Taser arrow? I thought you were fucking _joking_.”

 

Beside her, Clint lifts his head. “Nat?” he whispers, voice hoarse. “That you? For real?”

 

“It’s me,” she says, and crawls over to him. His shirt is soaked with blood, and she curls her hand over his. “God, Clint, I’m so sorry, I--”

 

“It’s okay. It wasn’t you.” He reaches up with his free hand, laying it against her cheek. “It wasn’t you.”

 

“It was me, though.” She reaches up to the couch and pulls down the purple blanket, bunching it up against the wound. “Ivan knew exactly how to reset me, and I killed--” She chokes on the words. “God, how many people did I--”

 

“Don’t.” Clint looks at her, his voice stern despite his paling face. “Don’t do that to yourself, Nat.”

 

She shakes her head, horror curling through her veins. “I could have killed you,” she whispers. “I could have killed Laura, I could have killed _Cooper_ \--”

 

“You couldn’t have,” Clint says. “You didn’t recognize me, I don’t think you knew they existed.” His eyes are soft and sad but alert, no sign that the blood loss was sinking in for him yet, and Natasha sent up a silent prayer to whoever might be listening.

 

“SHIELD was right,” Natasha whispers, bending her forehead against Clint’s. “I’m too dangerous, Clint. You _should_ kill me.”

 

Clint’s gaze sharpens. “Not on your life,” he says.

 

“Clint,” she pleads. “Clint, he turned me into a weapon, he turned me back into what I _was_. I can’t--I _can’t_ \--” She pulls in a shaking breath, presses her hands more firmly against his wound. “Please,” she whispers. “Please, Clint. If you love me--”

 

“No.” He pushes himself up onto his elbow, goes white, but doesn’t fall. “Don’t you dare, Natasha, don’t you fucking _dare_. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to use that against me.”

 

She feels her stomach clench. “Please,” she whispers, one more time, but she knows it’s useless. Clint has always believed in her more than she’s believed in herself. “Clint. You can’t save me.”

 

“The hell I can’t,” he says. He reaches up and hooks a finger into the collar of her shirt, pulls her down so that he can brush her lips with his. Her mouth is bruised and bloody from the fight, and his mouth tastes like blood and sweat. It’s the sweetest kiss she’s ever had. He lets her go, and puts a hand to his ear. “This is Agent Barton checking in,” he says. “I have Romanova in my custody. Two to extract.”

 

“Clint,” Natasha says, confusion flooding her. “What are you--”

 

“Yeah, I know what my orders were,” Clint says to whoever’s in his ear. “But my contract with Fury gives me the right to decide when I fire a shot and when I make a different call. So this is me.” He looks at Natasha, his gaze steady and firm, and for the first time since Ivan ripped her agency away, Natasha feels a small curl of safety warm her belly. “Making a different call.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: canon-typical violence, including violence between male and female characters; brainwashing/programming; acts of violence that might maybe be considered acts of terrorism? kind of hard to tell, so I thought I'd throw it in just to be safe.
> 
> Happy New Year, everyone! Welcome to 2016! Thank you so much for sticking by this fic over the past months. The kudos and comments you've all left on this fic have been absolutely wonderful, and I'm looking forward to going through the rest of this fic with you. :) :) We're looking at another six or seven chapters on this baby and they all have a lot of OODLES OF FEELINGS potential, so strap yourself in for a fun ride. :)
> 
> Thanks as always to [isjustprogress](http://isjustprogress.tumblr.com) for her encouragement, feelings sharing, and horrifically depressing musical headcanons. 
> 
> As always, you can always feel free to send me questions or comments at [my tumblr](http://geniusorinsanity.tumblr.com).


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end of chapter for notes and warnings.

**2008**

 

Clint’s handler, Coulson, greets her with barely-veiled distrust as she supports a bleeding Clint into the helicopter he sends for them, and he puts her in cuffs that she could break out of in an instant once Clint is stabilized on a Medevac stretcher, a pressure bandage in place over the stab wound she’d given him. Clint refuses to be taken to a London hospital before they go back to the States, and doesn’t let Coulson take Natasha out of his sight. 

 

Natasha’s grateful for that. She feels uncertain and scared and vulnerable, more than she has since the first time she broke her conditioning, and she’s trembling from the post-fight adrenaline, the sound of her own voice pleading for Clint to kill her ringing in her ears. Her hands shake in the cuffs and she wants to thread her fingers through Clint’s to hide the trembling, but she knows she can’t, that it’ll give too much away if she reaches for him.

 

(She wants Laura’s embrace, and to watch Cooper’s peaceful sleeping face, but the idea of being too close to them, where she could hurt them or worse, makes her stomach churn, and she has to bend her head between her knees to keep from vomiting in the helicopter.)

 

By the time they touch down on U.S. soil, Clint is alert and talking and already turning down the painkillers the SHIELD medics on the plane try to push on him. 

 

A tall, slender woman with dark hair and a stern expression meets them as they get off the plane. “Agent Barton,” she says.

 

Clint, leaning slightly on Coulson, grins at her. “Agent Hill. Did you miss me?”

 

Her expression doesn’t waver. “I never miss you,” she says. “And Fury wants to see you.”

 

“No shit,” Clint says. He takes his weight off Coulson, sets his jaw against the pain that must go through him, and raises his chin. “Let’s go.”

 

Hill’s eyes flicker to Natasha, and she shakes her head. “Not her,” she says. “She goes to the detention level.”

 

“The hell she does,” Clint says flatly. “She stays with me.”

 

“Barton,” Coulson begins, but Clint snaps a hard glare at him, and Coulson sighs. “I’ll take full responsibility, Hill.”

 

The other agent narrows her eyes, still looking at Natasha like she’d like to put a bullet in her head, and Natasha can’t help thinking that she’d let her. After a long moment, she shakes her head. “Fine,” she says, motioning to the two black-clad and heavily armed agents at her back, who move to flank Natasha immediately. “Let’s go.”

 

Everything Natasha knows about Nick Fury has come from Clint’s stories, and her mental picture of him is of a man who is imposing yet strangely kind. When they reach his office, a large, surprisingly bright room, Fury gets to his feet, over six feet of towering power. He strides toward them, his one eye sweeping over the assembled group in front of them, and spends a long time looking at Natasha in silence. 

 

Finally, he looks at Hill and Coulson. “Dismissed,” he says. Hill motions to the two agents, and they follow her out of the room. Coulson hesitates for a moment, and Fury snaps his gaze to him. “ _ Out _ ,” he says, and Coulson glances briefly at Clint before leaving the room, closing the door with a decisive  _ click _ behind him.

 

Fury turns to Clint, who has shifted into a surprisingly relaxed parade rest, hands clasped behind his back, not a trace of pain on his features. “Barton,” he says, after a long moment, and to Natasha’s surprise, his tone sounds more exasperated than angry. “What the  _ fuck _ ?”

 

Clint’s lips twitch upwards. “Come on, sir,” he says. “You did say I could call my own shots.”

 

“About mobsters and thieves, Barton, not Russian sleeper assassins!” he snaps, and then glances at Natasha. “No offense,” he adds.

 

Natasha blinks. “None taken?” she offers.

 

Fury nods, as if he finds that to be an acceptable answer, and looks back at Clint. “I’ve got multiple law enforcement agencies asking me for proof of death or dismemberment,” he says. “What the hell do you expect me to do with her?”

 

Clint shrugs. “Put her to work,” he says.

 

Fury’s eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

 

Natasha looks at him. “What?” she echoes, confused.

 

Clint glances at her, but when he talks, it’s to Fury. “You brought me in knowing what I’d done,” he says. “You knew my whole history, every dirty secret I’d tried to hide. You think I’d been through some shit? Natasha’s life was ten times worse. They didn’t make those girls into Black Widows by being nice to them. She deserves a second chance as much as I did.” His expression softens. “Maybe more.”

 

A lump rises in Natasha’s throat, and her eyes sting. She schools her features to blankness to keep from giving herself away. 

 

Fury gazes at Clint, his face calculating and stern. “And I’m supposed to just believe she’s on our side now?”

 

Clint glances at her. “Tell him,” he says, simply.

 

He doesn’t tell her  _ what  _ to say, but she and Clint have known each other long enough now that they don’t need words. His eyes tell her everything she needs to know. She raises her chin a fraction, and allows a hint of the vulnerability she’s feeling to seep into her eyes. “Ivan Petrovich stripped my will away from me,” she says. “Agent Barton gave me a chance to make my own choices. To use my skillset to make the world better, not worse.” She swallows. “I’ve got a lot of red in my ledger. This is a chance to wipe some of it out.”

 

Something shifts in Fury’s dark eye that she can’t quite identify, something thoughtful and considering. “Red in your ledger, huh?” 

 

She holds his gaze, and after a moment, he snorts, a smile twitching his lips upward. He reaches out and presses a hidden switch on the cuffs on her wrists, and they fall to the floor. Natasha stares at him, resisting the urge to rub at her wrists to soothe the ache from the metal away. “Does this mean I’m hired?” she asks, dryly.

 

“It means I’m not going to kill you,” he says, and she appreciates the honesty. He looks at Clint. “She’ll be your responsibility,” he says. “I’m splitting you and May up for now; you’re going to be on babysitting duty while our newest probationary agent goes through every psych eval our  _ very  _ well-paid and creative psychiatric comes up with. She stays on base until I say otherwise, and that means you do, too.”

 

Clint’s lips press into a thin line, and Natasha knows he’s thinking of Laura and Cooper. Her heart clenches in her chest, but he nods. “Fine,” he says. “But you’re dealing with my wife when she finds out you’re keeping me here.”

 

It takes every ounce of Natasha’s well-honed muscle control not to snort out a laugh. Fury doesn’t bother. “You can give her my personal cell,” he says. “You’re dismissed. Get yourself checked out again by Medical before you bring  _ Agent  _ Romanova down to Psych. They’ll be expecting her.”

 

“Sir,” Clint says, a hint of pained relief slipping into his voice for the first time. He curls a hand around Natasha’s arm, tugging her gently toward the door, and she manages not to instinctively lean into his touch. 

 

“Oh, and Barton?”

 

They stop, and turn in accidental unison back at Fury, who’s looking at them with barely-veiled amusement, one eyebrow raised. 

 

“The name we had on file for her was Natalia.” He’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach all the way to his eye. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t you usually have to know someone quite well before it’s appropriate to use a diminutive?”

 

Natasha has the presence of mind to think  _ shit _ , but Clint just grins. “You know me, sir,” he says. “I move quick. Before you know it, she’ll be letting me call her Tasha.”

 

He rarely does-- _ Tasha  _ is Laura’s name for her, only used by Clint in times of deep vulnerability or need, and she snorts at him. “You wish, Barton,” she says, but she can’t keep the affection out of her voice, feeling, for the first time, almost like herself again.

 

Clint’s grin spreads to shit-eating proportions. “See?” he tells Fury, and hauls Natasha out of the room.

 

The next weeks pass in a blur of tests, interviews, certifications, and clearance hearings. Clint stays glued to her side for almost all of it and she finds herself clinging to his steadiness--not with her hands, of course, but as emotionally as she can. He convinces Fury to let her stay in his quarters, not on the detention block, and Natasha sees the rumors start almost instantly. If they bother Clint, he doesn’t show it, and seems nearly willing to encourage them, always laying a hand on the small of her back to usher her into his quarters before him each time they turn in for the night.

 

(That first night, they fuck with a ferocity that borders on desperate. It turns gentle, by the end, and when it’s over Natasha turns her face into Clint’s neck and cries until she runs out of tears, too exhausted to do anything other than fall asleep in his arms. When she wakes he’s on the phone, one arm still curled around her, and the softness of his voice lets her know that he’s talking to Laura--it couldn’t be anyone else.

 

He asks her if she wants to talk to her, and Natasha shakes her head.

 

If she hears Laura’s voice, she’ll fall apart more than she already has, and she can’t do that. Not yet.)

 

At the end of the eighth week, Fury cuts them loose. 

 

“Consider me convinced,” he tells Natasha, handing her an ID badge. ROMANOFF, NATASHA, it proclaims beside her photo, and large black print designates her at security clearance level five. “Now get off my base. If I have one more person ask me if I want in on the pool over whether or not the two of you are fucking, I’m going to scoop my other eye out.”

 

Clint grins. Natasha feels her stomach drop.

 

Fury gives Clint clearance to take one of the smaller jets for the flight back to Iowa, and Natasha spends the trip trying to breathe herself through the impending panic attack while Clint pilots them calmly through the sky. He’s quiet and competent and Natasha watches him, wondering, not for the first time, when the underfed, scrawny teenager she’d picked up off the streets of Detroit had grown into a man who could anchor her through any storm, even one as strong and rocky as this one. 

 

She doesn’t want to think about what could have happened if Ivan had taken her mind apart and there had been no Clint to bring her back.

 

They touch down on the farm property, and Natasha’s panic goes from hypothetical to very, very real. She turns to Clint. “You can’t bring me in there,” she says.

 

Clint tugs off his headset and frowns. “What do you mean, I can’t bring you in there? That’s our wife in there. Our wife and our kid. You don’t want to see them?”

 

“Of course I want to see them, I just…” Her breath is coming in shorter bursts, and she tries to regulate her pulse. “I just--Clint, what if there’s still something inside me that’s not  _ me _ , what if I--what if--”

 

The anxiety overwhelms her, closing over her head like ice-cold waves in a stormy sea, and she chokes on her words. Clint’s hands curl over her wrists, tight and strong and grounding like the grip of the cuff that used to soothe her to sleep, and she zeroes in on the sensation of his skin against hers. “Listen to me,” he says, and she does, forces herself to focus on his voice. “You’re not going to hurt them. You’re not going to do anything to hurt them, Nat, because those two beautiful people in there are your whole world, and no brainwashing in the world could make you lay a finger on them.”

 

Natasha sucks in a breath. “You don’t know that,” she says.

 

“Of course I do.”

 

She shakes her head. “I didn’t break it for you.”

 

“I was a trained assassin there to kill you,” he says flatly, and even though she knows it’s true, it makes her flinch. His eyes soften. “You’ve been protective of Laura since before you met her,” he says gently, “and you’d never,  _ ever  _ harm Cooper.”

 

Natasha swallows, hard. “But what if I do?” she whispers, and her voice comes out very small.

 

Clint holds her gaze for a long, quiet moment. “If it looks like you might,” he says finally, “then I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

 

It shouldn’t be comforting, but relief flows through her like sweet oxygen to drowning lungs. She tilts her head forward, her forehead bumping against his, and closes her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispers.

 

Clint squeezes her wrists once, and then releases her. “Come on.”

 

Laura meets them at the door and all but flings herself into Natasha’s arms without wasting an instant, and Natasha catches her around the waist and holds on tight. It takes everything she has not to break down because Laura’s done it for her, sobbing wetly into Natasha’s neck. Natasha presses her face into Laura’s hair and breathes in the smell of Burt’s Bees baby shampoo and Laura’s own lavender conditioner and body wash. “I’ve got you,” Natasha whispers, her eyes hot and stinging. “I’m here.”

 

“You’re  _ home _ ,” Laura says, and Natasha chokes down a sob of her own. “You’re home, Tasha, never leave like that again, Natasha, you  _ promised _ .”

 

“In her defense, it wasn’t her fault,” Clint says.

 

His voice is warm, and Laura sniffles, loosening her grip on Natasha to move into Clint’s arms. As she does, her loose shirt pulls flat against her stomach, and Natasha’s own belly flops. “Laura,” she breathes.

 

Laura, halfway tucked into Clint’s embrace, glances at her. “What?”

 

“What, what?” Natasha feels lightheaded, and only Clint’s hand at the small of her back holds her steady. The curve of Laura’s abdomen is slight, but unmistakable. “You’re pregnant?”

 

Laura’s lips part, and she looks up at Clint, her expression almost accusing. “You didn’t  _ tell  _ her?”

 

“She was under a lot of stress!” Clint says defensively.

 

Natasha reels on him. “You knew?”

 

“She told me before I came to find you,” he admits, curling one arm around Laura’s waist and rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly with the other. “And you kept saying that you didn’t want to talk to her, and I thought that if you couldn’t  _ talk  _ to her, knowing about the baby would just…”

 

“Natasha?” Laura looks worried and uncertain. “Are you...are you upset?”

 

“I’m…” It’s too much all at once, but she can’t help recognizing the warmth that curls through her belly. “No, love, I’m not upset.” She reaches up and lays a trembling hand over Laura’s cheek, and smiles when Laura tilts her face more closely against her palm. “I’m happy.”

 

Laura’s face lights up. “Really?”

 

“Really,” Natasha says, meaning it, and Laura leans forward to kiss her, soft and slow. It’s the sweetest kiss she’s had in weeks, and her vision blurs with fresh tears.

 

“Mama?”

 

The voice comes from inside the house, small and excited, and Natasha moves away from Laura, her heart leaping into her throat as she bends down to look her son in his bright, eager eyes. “Hello, darling,” she whispers, and Cooper bounds forward into her arms. Natasha catches him and sweeps him up, holding him tight. He wraps his tiny arms around her neck and Natasha struggles to keep from bursting into tears, because she has  _ missed  _ this, the absolute trust this tiny creature places in her, the complete love in his eyes when he looks at her. 

 

This is  _ home _ , she thinks, and she came so, so close to losing it forever.

 

Too close.

 

They put Cooper to bed together, and when he’s asleep, Mookey tucked securely under his arm and a sweet, happy smile on his face, Laura curls her fingers into the belt loops of Natasha’s jeans and draws her into their bedroom. Her smile is as sweet as Cooper’s but her eyes are far more calculating, and Natasha can’t keep her own smile off her face as Laura gently tugs Natasha’s shirt over her head. Clint’s broad hands splay over her waist, calloused and warm, and Natasha leans back into his grip with a smile as his lips touch her neck. “You know, I’ve missed being home,” he murmurs against her skin. “But I’ve missed Laura’s  _ welcomes _ home even more.”

 

“I’m a very good welcomer,” Laura says with a smile, kissing the other side of Natasha’s neck. 

 

Natasha closes her eyes. “You always have been,” she says, and lets Laura pull her into her arms, lets the two of them take her apart.

 

As sated and warm as she is, she sleeps fitfully that night, in the middle of their bed with Clint and Laura curled around her. She strokes her fingertips over the slight swell of Laura’s belly and watches the curve of Clint’s eyelashes in the moonlight, hears the soft snuffle of Cooper’s breathing on the baby monitor on Laura’s bedside table. 

 

The peace of this place is fragile and beautiful, and she knows,  _ knows _ , that it was only the luck of Ivan’s ignorance of its existence that kept her hand from being the one that wiped it off the map.

 

Only luck.

 

Luck never happens twice.

 

She’s awake early, and sitting on the living room armchair staring at the coffee table when Clint and Laura come downstairs, Clint still half-asleep despite Cooper’s enthusiastic attempts, from his place on Clint’s hip, to style Clint’s hair into yeti-like spikes. They stop at the base of the stairs when they see her, and Laura raises her eyebrows. “Nat?”

 

“Hey,” Natasha says tiredly, smiling faintly at them. “I...Come sit?”

 

Laura nods uncertainly, glancing at Clint, who motions for her to sit and carries Cooper briefly into the kitchen, coming back a few moments later with a cup of juice. He sets Cooper on the floor with the juice and comes to sit next to Laura on the couch. “Okay,” he says, giving Laura a worried look and then turning to Natasha. “What’s up?”

 

Natasha takes a deep breath, steeling her resolve. It’s going to hurt, she  _ knows _ it’s going to hurt, but it’s to keep them safe. She looks at Cooper on the floor, happily drinking his orange juice, and then at the curve of Laura’s belly, barely there under the large t-shirt that Natasha’s sure was once Clint’s, the tiny promise of new life, of a growing family.

 

It’s to keep all of them safe. 

 

She leans forward, and places her wedding band on the coffee table between them. The  _ chink  _ of metal on wood should be soft, but resonates in the quiet stillness of the morning. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “But I have to go.”

 

**2015**

 

“Clint, you’re being ridiculous.” Laura crossed her arms over her chest, frowning at him. “She’s not sick, she ate too much sugar.”

 

Clint leaned against the wall, fairly effectively barring her way to Lila’s room. “She  _ could  _ be sick,” he pointed out. “She goes to enough of those birthday parties that she could have picked up a bug.”

 

Laura rolled her eyes. “Regardless,” she said. “I’m a big girl. I can handle a bug.”

 

“ _ You  _ can,” he said. “But you’re breastfeeding, and you’ll be miserable if you’re feeding Nate when you’re sick.”

 

That gave her a moment’s pause, but she shook her head. “If she caught something at another party, we’ve all already been exposed to it, and the whole house--Nate included--will probably be sick in a few days. So it doesn’t make a difference.” She narrowed her eyes. “Now. Are you going to get out of the way so I can go see my little girl, or do I have to move you?”

 

He snorted, but shifted to let her through, swatting at her bottom as she passed him. “Cheeky,” he said.

 

She stuck her tongue out at him over her shoulder, and then went into Lila’s room. Lila was curled up in her bed, surrounded by a veritable mountain of stuffed animals, and Laura’s annoyance with Clint faded as she realized that he must have helped Lila build herself the siege tower of toys when he’d tucked her in. “Hey, Lila-girl,” she said softly, setting the cup of tea on Lila’s nightstand and sitting down on the bed, moving a few teddy bears aside. “How are you feeling, baby?”

 

Lila’s head poked out from under the covers, and Laura kept her expression carefully calm and concerned despite her daughter’s flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. Maybe Clint did have a point--that was not a too-much-sugar face, even if it was coming on the tail of several bouts of vomiting. “I feel yucky,” she said miserably. 

 

“I know, honey. I’m sorry.” Laura lay the back of her hand against Lila’s forehead. Her skin was warm, but not dangerously so. “Do you want to drink some tea?”

 

Lila shook her head. “No.” She wrapped an arm around her stuffed wolf. “I don’t wanna throw up again.”

 

Laura clicked her tongue sympathetically. “I know, baby, but you need to drink something, or you’ll feel yuckier later. And the ginger will help your tummy.”

 

Lila looked doubtful, but after a moment, she nodded, worming her way out of the pile of stuffed toys to sit up. Laura helped her rearrange the stuffed animals around her new position and then handed her the mug. “Little sips,” she cautioned, smoothing Lila’s hair back. It was still damp from her bath, and Clint had braided it for her, two simple French plaits so that it would be flat enough for her to sleep on. Clint had always found braiding relaxing, and Laura often let him braid her hair for her when she came out of a bath, enjoying the easy, practiced motions of his steady hands in her hair. “Were you feeling yucky before you went to the party?”

 

Swallowing an obediently small sip from the mug, Lila gave her a slightly guilty look. “A little,” she admitted. “But I wanted to go.”

 

“You’re not in trouble,” Laura said, mentally kicking herself. “We’re just trying to figure out if you picked something up somewhere or if you got sick from something at the party.”

 

“Oh.” Lila looked down at her tea, both small hands curled around the mug. It was a bright blue cup of thick ceramic, a mosaic dolphin on one side. Natasha had brought it back from Brazil for Laura years ago, knowing Laura’s fondness for mugs with texture and color. “I felt a little yucky before I left. But a lot yucky once I was eating at the party.” She made a face. “They had pizza but it wasn’t good like Daddy’s.”   
  


“Mm.” Laura could believe that. Clint refused to get pizza from any of the places in town, insisting that it wasn’t  _ real  _ pizza, and Laura had been spoiled enough by the pizza in New York that she agreed with him. Fortunately, Clint had made up for it by figuring out his own recipes that tasted enough like the pies from their old favorite restaurant in Brooklyn that Laura suspected he might have used SHIELD surveillance equipment to watch the chefs there at work. “I think we might have to play it by ear, then, baby doll.”

 

Lila nodded unhappily, her toes wiggling under the blanket. “Does that mean I can’t play with Nate?”

 

“For now,” Laura said gently. Lila’s face fell. “I know, sweetie. But Cooper’s making you some house toast and he’s going to come read to you for a little while.”

 

That seemed to perk Lila up. Cooper was getting to the age where he didn’t have as much patience for spending all his time with his little sister, while Lila was still young enough to idolize him. “What’s he gonna read?”

 

“You’ll have to ask him,” Laura teased, bending down and kissing her nose. “I’m going to go see how he’s doing with the toaster. Will you be okay here with your tea?”

 

Lila nodded, smiling now. “I have Mister Wolf,” she said, indicating the stuffed toy under her arm.

 

Laura smiled. “Then you’re all set,” she agreed, kissing her forehead and then kissing Mister Wolf on his fuzzy ear, getting to her feet. She left the door gently ajar and headed downstairs, nearly running into Cooper on the landing. He had a plate in both hands with two pieces of toast, covered in butter and cinnamon-sugar and cut into the shapes of houses. “Done already?” she asked, surprised.

 

“Dad helped with the cutting,” Cooper said. “Is she doing okay?”

 

“She’s very excited for you to come read to her,” Laura said. Cooper grinned, and Laura bent to kiss the top of his head. “You’re a good big brother. You know that?”

 

Cooper wriggled away, but he was smiling. “Dad said that, too.”

 

“Well, it’s true.” Cooper flushed, and Laura laughed softly. “You go on upstairs. Yell for me or Dad if you need us.”

 

“Okay.” He made his way upstairs and Laura watched him go, and then headed downstairs to the kitchen, where Clint was munching on his own piece of house toast, Nate tucked into one arm. “Is some of that for me?”

 

Clint paused with the toast halfway to his mouth. “It can be,” he said.

 

She grinned. “You don’t have to sound so reluctant.”

 

“It’s really good toast,” he said, but held it out for her. Laura leaned across the counter to take a bite, letting the warm, sweet flavors of butter and cinnamon sugar flood across her tongue. She hummed happily, and Clint grinned. “Right?”

 

Laura swallowed her bite. “We need to make more of that immediately,” she said. 

 

Clint’s grin broadened. “My thoughts exactly.” 

 

He handed Nate over to her so that he could start slicing more bread, and Laura leaned against the counter, rocking the baby gently as his forehead furrowed at the transition between his parents. “Where did Nat and Wanda go?”

 

“Office.” He put two slices into the toaster and then set some butter into a pan to melt. “Steve wanted to talk to Wanda for a bit, and she wanted Natasha with her.”

 

Laura raised a brow. “Is she okay?”

 

Clint nodded, shaking the pan a bit. “I think she just feels better with Nat,” he said with a shrug. “Steve’s great, but he can be intense, and Wanda’s still getting used to feeling comfortable with him. Nat’s kind of become her go-to person.”

 

“Female connection?” she teased.

 

“Like I’m stupid enough to fall into that trap,” he said, sticking his tongue out at her. “No. I think she can sense that Nat’s had a lot of the same losses she has, and she knows that Nat’s been as unstable as she feels sometimes.”

 

Laura pressed her lips together. “Natasha’s not unstable.”

 

“Maybe that’s the wrong way to put it,” Clint agreed, nodding as he sprinkled cinnamon and sugar into the pan, stirring it into the butter. “Out of her own control, maybe?”

 

Laura frowned. “Do you think Natasha told her about the Red Room?”

 

Clint gave her a tight smile. “She didn’t have to.”

 

_ Oh _ . Laura closed her eyes, remembering the day she’d met the Avengers, all of them tired and pale and tense in her living room, the haunted expression in Natasha’s eyes. “And Natasha still trusts her?”

 

Clint shook his head. “I don’t think it’s about trust,” he said. The toaster  _ ping _ ed, and Clint put the two slices of toast onto plates, turning off the stove and picking up the pastry brush, painting both slices with the cinnamon sugar mixture. “I think she sees herself in Wanda, and she sees that the Avengers are a chance for Wanda to take control of her life again. She wants to make sure Wanda takes that chance, and I think Wanda can see that.”

 

He pushed one plate across the counter to her. Laura caught his hand before he could pull away. “Hey,” she said. “When’d you get so smart, huh?”

 

Clint curled his hand around hers, a small smile playing on his lips. “I picked up a few things from the smartest girl I know.”

 

Laura let him tug her close. “Lila?” she teased, wrapping her free arm around his waist, Nate tucked securely between them.

 

“Close,” he said, and bent his head to kiss her.

 

**2009**

 

The worst part of it is that Clint can’t be angry at her.

 

He wants to--at the very least, he wishes that he could be, just because  _ angry  _ would be so much easier than the exhausted heartbreak he feels instead. But he sees every ounce of his own heartbreak in her own eyes as she tells Clint and Laura that she’s leaving, and he can’t be angry at her, because he understands.

 

It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

 

They return to SHIELD together, and Clint doesn’t say a word the entire flight back--not because he’s angry, but because he doesn’t know what to say. His stomach churns as they cross the flyovers, and every time he looks at Natasha, she’s gazing out the window, her green eyes dark with emotion and pain.

 

He touches down into the SHIELD hangar bay, and looks at her as the engines cool. “Nat,” he says quietly.

 

Her gaze flickers to him, and he glances down in time to see that she’s been running her right thumb over the place on her left ring finger where her wedding band had been. “What?”

 

“I…” Clint takes a breath, flexing his hands around the controls and then forcing himself to relax. “We’re gonna be okay, Nat.”

 

Natasha laughs, soft and bitter, barely there. “How do you know?” The question comes out angry, but there’s a pang in her voice that Clint knows as well as his own, a vulnerable desire for reassurance that weighs his heart down in his chest. He takes a breath.

 

“Because we always are,” he says, meaning it. He smiles, because the only thing worse than Nat breaking his and Laura’s hearts is watching her own heart shatter doing it, and he can’t be part of that. “We always have been.”

 

One cheek hollows in as she bites it. “This is different,” she says softly. “This was my choice.”

 

“You’re allowed to make your own choices, Nat.” He swallows even as he says it, because he knows, he  _ knows _ , that it’s not that she’s  _ allowed  _ to make her own choices, but that right now, she  _ needs  _ to, and he needs to let her do it, even if it cuts him to the gut. 

 

Natasha’s lips part, and when she smiles again, there’s even a touch of genuine feeling in it. “Right,” she says. She looks out the window at the hangar, where a flight crew is already coming to run specs on the jet. “So what now?”

 

“Now?” Clint manages a smile. “Now we go save the world.”

 

May’s been working in Administration since the shitshow that went down in Bahrain, the one Clint missed while he was holding Nat’s hand through Psych’s whirlwind of tests, and Fury assigns Natasha as Clint’s permanent partner, appointing Coulson as their handler. Natasha seems to take an odd liking to him, which doesn’t really surprise Clint--Coulson’s got the same dry, weirdly nerdy humor as Natasha, and about as much fond exasperation with Clint’s penchant for jumping off buildings and breaking his bones. They get along famously, and Clint finds himself missing May’s willingness to take his side in playing pranks and fudging rules.

 

(Natasha even makes him do paperwork. What the  _ hell _ , Nat?)

 

The first time he goes back to the farm without her feels  _ wrong _ , and Laura bursts into tears when she sees him alone. He swallows the lump in his throat and wraps her in a hug, the five-month swell of her belly firm between them. "Hey," he says, ducking his head into the soft, sweet-smelling crook of her neck. "It's okay."

 

"I was so sure," she whispers, her fingers clenching in his shirt. "I was so sure you'd bring her home with you."

 

Clint closes his eyes. Until the moment he’d taken off, he’d been sure, too. But Natasha had watched him from the hangar bay doors, her expression unreadable, eyes stormy and mouth tight as he’d climbed into the jet. She’d let him climb into the jet without her, and it had truly sunk in, for the first time, that Natasha was serious--that she wasn’t coming back. “I know,” he says, and hates that he has to be the one to say it. “I’m sorry.”

 

Laura pulls away from him, looking up at him with red, wet eyes. “You have to come back to me,” she says, her voice suddenly fierce. “When you go. You have to come back, Clint. I can’t--” She breaks off, suddenly choked, and swallows visibly. “I can’t lose you both.”

 

His heart throbs in his chest, and he pulls her back to him. “You won’t,” he promises, and means it. 

 

If the worst part of it is that he can’t be angry at Natasha, the second-worst is this: 

 

Not much changes.

 

They’ve known each other too long, too well, for anything different to be true. Natasha still teases him and laughs at his awful jokes and shocks him with how much of an absolute dork she is despite so many years of horrific trauma; Clint still pulls her hair and makes her tea and makes sure she has her favorite Glocks when they leave on a mission together. They still know, immediately and instinctively and without looking, where the other is in a room at any moment; they still bicker like spouses and bandage each other’s wounds rather than turning to a medical professional for anything less than surgery.

 

The rumors start instantly.

 

“So,” Rumlow says, sitting down across from Clint in the mess with a tray of food. “How long have you been fucking Romanoff?”

 

Clint doesn’t choke on his coffee, because he is a trained fucking professional, but he does swallow a little more firmly than he might have otherwise. “What? I’m not fucking Romanoff.”

 

“Bullshit.” Rumlow pulls his roll apart and smears butter onto it with his tac knife. Clint resists the urge to roll his eyes. He likes Rumlow, he does, but the man takes his STRIKE leader role a little too closely to heart. “You always know where she is, she laughs at your jokes--which are fucking  _ awful _ , I don’t know how May never shot you--you spar like you’re naked--”

 

“Enough,” Clint interrupts, more uncomfortable than he likes admitting, no small part because he knows it’s true. The skin on the back of his neck prickles and he turns toward the entrance just as Natasha walks in with Barbara Morse, the two of them deep in conversation as they get into the mess line. He glances back to Rumlow to find the other agent grinning at him, and rolls his eyes. “Shove it.”

 

“I’m just saying,” Rumlow says, pointing his knife at Clint. “If you’re  _ not  _ hitting that, you should be.”

 

Clint snorts, picking up his coffee mug again. “You know Romanoff’s rep,” he says. “You think I want to start sleeping with an agent called  _ Black Widow _ ?”

 

Rumlow grins. “I think you’re already sleeping with her,” he says. “And if you’re not, you definitely  _ want  _ to, unless you’re gay or you’re dead, and I’m pretty sure you’re neither.”

 

Clint’s fucked a few men in his day, but he doesn’t think now’s the time to bring that up, even if he  _ is  _ pretty sure it would knock the grin off Rumlow’s face. “If I was sleeping with her,” he says, “and I’m not saying I am--you really think she’d take kindly to me telling people about it?”

 

Rumlow rolls his eyes. “Fine, have it your way.”

 

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, Brock,” Clint says sagely, putting a bit of a smirk into his grin, even if it feels hollow in the base of his belly, because he and Natasha haven’t gone this long without sleeping together in almost twenty fucking years, and he  _ misses  _ her. 

 

Natasha and Morse set their trays down at their table, Natasha dropping into the chair next to Clint, close enough that he can feel the warmth of her through his tac jacket. “What aren’t you telling, Barton?”

 

“You about my secret stash of SHIELD-brewed moonshine, Romanoff,” he says immediately, reaching onto her tray and plucking the chocolate chip cookie from her dessert plate. She makes a face at him, but he knows she got it for him in the first place. 

 

Natasha shrugs. “It’s next to the bottle of Jack Daniels in your foot locker,” she says idly, reaching for the olives he’d pulled out of his salad and set aside for her automatically, because two decades of habit can’t be broken in a matter of months no matter how hard he tries.

 

Rumlow gives him a shit-eating grin, and Clint kicks him under the table.

 

“Rumlow thinks we’re sleeping together,” Clint says later, and punches Natasha in the face.

 

He tries to, anyway; she dodges, as usual. They’re in one of the SHIELD gyms, and it’s after hours, technically, but Clint’s clearance is high enough to get them in. He’s learned that he doesn’t sleep well away from Laura when she’s pregnant, and if the circles under Nat’s eyes are any indication, she doesn’t either. She’s usually awake when he goes by her quarters to see if she’ll spar, and tonight’s no exception.

 

“You can’t really blame him,” she says, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. “We spent a lot of time sleeping together.”

 

“Yeah, but he doesn’t know that.” He ducks under the punch she aims at his temple and lands an uppercut to her solar plexus. Natasha uses the momentum of the impact to move into a back handspring, landing in a crouch. “I think he’s starting a betting pool.”

 

Natasha snickers, flipping her hair back. “I must be losing my touch,” she says, almost playfully. “In my prime, it wouldn’t have been up for debate.”

 

Clint flinches, because she’s looking at him like she looks at a mark, and it makes his stomach turn. “Pretty sure he just likes stirring up shit.”

 

Natasha roundhouse kicks him, and he blocks it with the heel of his palm, feeling the sting of impact run up his arm. “Shouldn’t you be encouraging it? Keeps the heat off anyone wondering why SHIELD’s hottest bachelor flirts but never delivers.”

 

He snorts. “No one thinks I’m SHIELD’s hottest bachelor, Nat.”

 

“No one  _ tells  _ you,” she corrects. “Morse is married, and I  _ still  _ catch her looking at your ass.”

 

“Huh.” He somersaults out of the way of her next kick. “I fake-married Morse for a mission once. Thought she seemed pretty good at it.”

 

Natasha cocks a brow. “Fake-married?”

 

“Not as fun as it sounds, she kicks in her sleep worse than--” He breaks off before he can say  _ Laura _ , but a shadow still flickers across her features. He swallows. “Nat--”

 

She catches him off-guard with a side kick to the stomach, and he barely has time to tighten his abs against it before she connects. He stumbles back a step with a grunt but recovers himself, and glances up in time to see fire and pain warring in her gaze. Clint grits his teeth and drops down to a crouch, lashing out and landing a lucky kick that sweeps across her ankles and knocks her feet out from under her. She goes down, landing hard on the mats with a small sound of surprise, and he rolls before she can recover herself, bracketing her waist with his knees and pinning both her wrists.

 

Natasha looks up at him, breathing hard, her eyes hot and sparkling. It’s a look she’s given him thousands of times and his body reacts on instinct, heat pulsing through him. Clint swallows hard, flexing his fingers around Natasha’s wrists, and Natasha licks her lips once before surging up to press her mouth to his. 

 

It’s their first kiss in months and he drinks in the taste of her lips like he’s drowning. He lets go of her wrists to push his fingers into her hair and she digs her fingernails into his hips, wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling him down against her. Clint groans into her mouth and Natasha whimpers against his lips, her grip on his hips tightening briefly before she jerks her mouth away from his, pulling his shirt over his head and then yanking him back down against her. 

 

The sudden press of her skin against his jolts him back to reality, and Clint sucks in a breath, breaking away from her. “Nat,” he says, hoarse and panting, holding her down as she tries to pull him back to her. “Nat, stop.”

 

Natasha makes a strangled, angry sound. “Why?” 

 

“Because I can’t--” He sucks in a breath, rolling off her and sitting back on his heels, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t do this.”

 

“Clearly you can,” she says, sitting up and giving a significant look to the tent in his shorts. 

 

He doesn’t bother to glare at her for that. “I can’t do this--this halfway shit, Nat,” he says, trying not to watch the line of sweat trailing down between her breasts. 

 

Natasha pushes her mussed hair back. “People have casual sex all the time,” she says.

 

“Not people who’ve been having  _ not  _ casual sex for almost twenty fucking years, Natasha,” he snaps. “I can’t…” He exhales hard, closing his eyes and taking another deep breath, and then looks at her. “I love you too much to fuck you like it doesn’t mean anything, Nat.”

 

Her lips, red and swollen, part briefly, and she closes her eyes briefly. “Clint,” she starts, and then she sighs, dropping her head into her hands. “I don’t know how to do this,” she admits. “I was alone for so long, and then I  _ wasn’t  _ for so long, and now I don’t remember how to…” She swallows visibly, the line of her throat rippling, and looks at him, her green eyes dark with feeling. “I don’t remember how to not have you, Clint.”

 

Clint threads his fingers together, running his thumb over his left ring finger. He wishes Laura was here. Laura always knows what to say. But Laura’s not here, and the vulnerability in Natasha’s eyes is breaking his heart, so he does the only thing he can, and holds out his arms. “C’mere.”

 

Natasha’s eyebrows raise in surprise, and then moves smoothly into his embrace, wrapping her arms around his waist. He holds her close and rests his cheek against her hair, feeling her heart rate slow to calm against his chest. “You’ve still got me, Nat,” he says softly. “You’re always gonna have me.”

 

She laughs softly, her fingers stroking slowly over the skin of his hip. It’s not a sexual motion but a grounding one, like she needs to know he’s there, and he gets that. “How?” she says. “You can’t do halfway, and I can’t--I can’t let myself be that connected again, it’s not safe. So what does that make us?”

 

“Friends. Partners.” He kisses the top of her head. “We watch each other’s back. We take care of each other. We make sure we always come home alive.” He pauses. “And we shoot stuff.”

 

Natasha looks up at him, her eyes soft and wet and smiling. “And shoot stuff?” she echoes, the beginnings of a laugh in her voice.

 

“Well, yeah.” He grins down at her, his own eyes damp. “Wouldn’t be fun otherwise, right?”

 

She laughs, tucking her head back under his chin and leaning closer to him. “We’re going to be okay,” she says softly. “Right?”

 

“Yeah, Nat.” Clint holds her closer and tries not to think about Laura, so far away and missing them, still hoping for Clint to bring Natasha home. He swallows. “Yeah. We always are.”

 

**2015**

 

“Right,” Clint said, sitting down on the porch step with a tall glass of iced coffee and Nate in one arm. “You ready?”

 

Wanda glanced at Natasha, who had tied her hair into a short ponytail at the nape of her neck, a few strands already coming loose. “I am,” she said. 

 

Natasha gave a short nod, and Clint grinned. “Alright,” he said. “Go.”

 

Wanda lunged forward. Natasha, moving smoothly and with what looked like--and probably was--very little effort, caught Wanda’s arm and used Wanda’s own momentum to pull her forward, flipping her over her shoulder and onto the ground. She rolled and pinned her, and then looked up at Clint. “Time?” she asked calmly.

 

Clint glanced at his watch and winced. “Four seconds,” he said.

 

On the ground, Wanda groaned. “It’s much easier when I can use my powers,” she said.

 

Natasha sat back and helped Wanda sit up. “You can’t depend on them,” she said. “The world is changing, and so are the people we fight. What if someone somehow knocked out your ability to use your powers?”

 

Wanda looked troubled. “I don’t like to think about that,” she said. 

 

“Comes with the territory, unfortunately,” Clint said. Nate wiggled in his arms and Clint tickled him under his chin distractedly. He glanced at Natasha. “I thought you’d have been teaching her more combat,” he said, not accusing, just pointing out.

 

Natasha shrugged. “She’s been spending most of her time working with Vision,” she says. “I’ve taught her some, but her focusing on developing her powers has been the priority.” Clint heard what she wasn’t saying: out of control, Wanda’s powers were a liability--one the Avengers couldn’t afford. 

 

“We’ve done some,” Wanda said, almost defensively. “And Sam has taught me some techniques.”

 

Clint grinned at her. “Like how to fall?”

 

She blinked. “Yes, actually. How did you know?”

 

He nodded his chin towards the spot on the grass where she’d landed. “The way you tucked your shoulders and neck when you fell to lessen the impact. He would have picked that up in Basic, but it’s newer than what they would have taught Steve when he went through.”

 

Wanda looked surprised, glancing at Natasha. Natasha smiled. “He’s smarter than he looks,” she said, shooting Clint a fond smile. He grinned and flipped her off, and she laughed. “Come on,” she said. “We’ll walk you through a few moves.” 

 

“It’s not too hard,” Clint said, shifting Nate into one arm and climbing to his feet. “Up you get, Wanda, come on.”

 

Wanda climbed up to her feet, tucking a few loose strands of hair behind her ears, and Clint waited until she looked at him again before speaking. “Alright,” he said. “Rule one. Stance.”

 

“We’ve learned this,” Wanda said, settling back into a defensive stance. “You have to keep your knees bent, and distribute your weight properly so that you can stay balanced.”

 

“Not quite,” Clint said. “The basics are right, but a stance isn’t meant to completely set your fighting style. The reason you learn a stance is to get the concept--to know how your body responds to pressure, to impact. Nat?”

 

Natasha stepped forward, redistributing her weight to mirror Wanda’s pose. “Try to hit me,” she instructed.

 

Wanda raised a doubtful eyebrow, but stepped forward and aimed a surprisingly strong hit at Natasha. Natasha blocked it with one arm, and turned over one shoulder, jabbing her elbow at Wanda’s stomach and stopping before the moment of impact. “That stance will do you good if you want to be fluid and defensive,” she explained, stepping away and smiling slightly as Wanda swallowed and touched a hand to where Natasha’s elbow had nearly struck her. “It keeps your strong side back so that you have more strength when you do attack with it, and by attacking with your weaker side first since it’s closer to your opponent, you can keep your energy going longer. Now, if you change your stance--”

 

She changed the way she stood, moving into the stance that Clint recognized immediately as one that meant business, and motioned for Wanda to attack her again. Wanda moved towards her, but before she could attack, Natasha lashed out, moving into a whirlwind of motion that she only barely slowed to allow Wanda to track her movements. Within seconds, Wanda was on the ground. “That’s an offensive stance,” she said, helping Wanda to her feet again. “Nine times out of ten, that’s what you want to do. Big stuff like Ultron aside, most of the fights we’re in don’t last long, and you don’t need to preserve your strong side by holding it back. And if we’ve done our job properly in training you physically, you won’t really  _ have  _ a strong side so much of a leading side.”

 

“Steve’s going to try to tell you differently on that one,” Clint interjected, bouncing Nate gently--the slight grunt that Wanda had made when she’d hit the ground had startled him, and he whimpered irritably in Clint’s arm. “He prefers a defensive stance, which makes a lot of sense for a guy who fights with a shield. And he’s got a point in some ways--if something’s fucked with your powers, chances are you  _ are  _ gonna be on the defensive.” He found a pacifier in his pocket, briefly inspected it, and popped it into Nate’s mouth. Nate relaxed, suckling happily. “But even if you’re on the defensive, you’re gonna want to get out of a fight fast. And the best way to do that is to attack, fight dirty, and run the hell out of there.”

 

Wanda brushed dirt off her leggings, rubbing at her leg where she’d struck the ground. “Why would I even  _ be  _ in a fight without my powers?” she asked, smoothing her hair back. “Wouldn’t I just be a liability?”

 

Clint flinched before he could stop himself, and Wanda flushed. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said quickly. “You have so much training, in weapons, and combat, and…” She shook her head. “I don’t have any of that. I would not know what to do in a fight.” She bit her lip, looking at Clint, her dark blue eyes heavy with memory. “I did not know what to do in a fight even when I did have my powers.”

 

The insecurity in her voice soothed the knee-jerk sting from his pride. “Hey,” Clint said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “The Ultron fight was hell on all of us, and you did a damn good job handling yourself in it.”

 

Her expression darkened. “I froze,” she said bitterly.

 

“You got scared,” Clint corrected firmly. “You think you’re the first person to get scared in a fight like that?” Wanda shook her head, uncertain, and he nodded. “Damn straight.” He squeezed her shoulder. “You pulled it together when it counted, and you saved a lot of people’s lives. That’s what made you an Avenger that day, not your powers.”

 

Wanda’s eyelashes flickered, a hesitant smile touching her lips, and Natasha laughed softly, her fingertips brushing against the small of his back as she moved closer to him. “You never fail to land the dad speech, Clint.”

 

He glanced at her, smiling wryly at the humor dancing in her eyes. “I practice in front of the mirror at night,” he said dryly.

 

Natasha grinned. “And here I thought you were just getting chatty in your old age,” she teased.

 

Clint looked down at Nate. “Can you believe we named you after her?” he asked him. 

 

Nate blinked curiously at him, reaching up one hand as if to grab at Clint’s nose, and Wanda giggled. “You two have a very...strange dynamic.”

 

“Years of practice,” Clint said dryly. “And she stabbed me a few times.”

 

“I shot you, too,” Natasha said mildly. Wanda gave her a wide-eyed look of shock, and she smiled wickedly. “He deserved it.”

 

“I did not deserve all the stabbings,” Clint said, defensive. “At  _ least  _ two were because you were just in a bad mood.”

 

Natasha eyed him thoughtfully for a moment, and then nodded. “Fair enough,” she agreed.

 

Wanda looked amused. “How many times has she stabbed you?”

 

“Enough,” Clint said, leveling a sour look at Natasha, who gave him a sweetly innocent smile. 

 

Wanda laughed, and then gave them a thoughtful look. “Could I watch you two spar?” she asked suddenly. 

 

The humor froze in Natasha’s eyes, and Clint found himself suddenly on edge. “Why?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

 

“You’re both experienced fighters,” she said with a shrug. “I always learn a lot watching Natasha spar with other fighters.”

 

Clint glanced at Natasha, and found his own hesitation echoed in her gaze. There was a reason--a very obvious one--why they rarely sparred when others could see them. They spent nearly all of their time hiding the relationship that had once existed between them, but hand-to-hand combat pressed them too close together, put too much heat between them, and nearly always gave them away. “Actually,” he said, clearing his throat. “My bad shoulder’s been acting up lately. I’d rather not push it too hard.”

 

Natasha nodded, her expression concerned. Clint saw through it to the relief underneath. “I didn’t realize it was still bothering you,” she said, her eyes heavy on his.

 

“It’s not bad,” Clint said, but Wanda was already moving.

 

“I’ll go in and get you a heating pad,” she said. “Laura showed me where they were.”

 

She was up the porch steps and into the house before Clint could protest, and as the door closed behind her, he glanced at Natasha. “Subtle,” he said.

 

Natasha shrugged. “I’m not perfect, Barton,” she said, and while there was a touch of humor in her voice, there was weariness in it, too. 

  
Clint leaned closer to her, slinging the arm that wasn’t holding Nate over her shoulders. He tugged her close and pressed a kiss to her forehead, a little rougher than he would have normally, just in case Wanda was watching from inside. “You’re perfect enough,” he said. She laughed, rough and snorting, and Clint grinned.

 

**2009**

 

Laura goes into labor two weeks early.

 

She isn’t expecting it. Cooper came exactly on his due date, and her pregnancy has been textbook so far--physically, anyway.

 

Emotionally, she’s never been on more of a roller coaster. Natasha’s leaving had shaken her to the core, her initial excitement about a new baby shifting to worry and uncertainty as her co-parent system disappeared nearly overnight, Natasha back to SHIELD and Clint with her under Fury’s orders. 

 

(Laura thinks that if she ever meets this Nick Fury, she might just punch him in the face.)

 

She finds herself managing a pregnancy and a three-year-old, running herself ragged trying to keep the house and her job and her kid in line. She sends up grateful thanks that she’s inherited her mother’s easy pregnancies, because she knows she could never handle the sort of symptoms she reads about in her baby books on top of all this stress. But even still, she’s exhausted.

 

“You’re the strongest woman I know,” Clint tells her each time he comes home, lying beside her in bed and stroking tender fingers over her growing belly. “You know that, right?”

 

He’s away too often, more often than he ever should have been. He tells her that Fury is seeing how he and Natasha work together, that they’re afraid to mesh too well and give it all away. They go on job after job, and she hates that the only time she knows for sure he’ll come home is when he’s been bloodied beyond a quick trip to Medical. He comes home with bruises and stitches and the occasional broken bone, always matched with an easy grin and a souvenir for Cooper, throwing himself into the role of husband and father with a ferocity that’s probably too much on his healing body, but Laura’s too tired to object.

 

The last time he comes home, she curls her hand over his and confesses, “I don’t feel strong.”

 

Clint props himself on his elbow, his gray-blue eyes soft as he looks at her. He doesn’t say anything, just holds her hand and waits, and Laura loves him for that, that he gives her the space to answer in her own time. “I feel like I’m floundering,” she says, swallowing. “I wasn’t--I wasn’t supposed to have to do this by myself.”

 

Hurt and guilt flicker through Clint’s eyes. “Laur,” he begins, hesitant, but she shakes her head to cut him off.

 

“I don’t mean it like that,” she says. “I know you’re here as often as you can be, I know you hate being gone. I’m not blaming you at all. It’s just…” She swallows again, closing her eyes. “When we planned this baby, it was supposed to be the three of us together, you and me and Tasha, and now it’s you and me, and I can do that, I love you. But for so much of it it’s just been me, and Cooper doesn’t understand why Tasha isn’t here anymore, and--”

 

She breaks off, opening her eyes and staring up at the ceiling to keep from crying. “I’m just tired,” she whispers. “All the time.”

 

Clint brushes a gentle hand through her hair, still damp at the roots from the almost frantic lovemaking she’d demanded from him as soon as Cooper was asleep. His hands never cease to amaze her--she can feel the rough callouses on his fingers, the strength contained within them, but he touches her skin with a tenderness that makes her heart pound in her breath, runs his fingertips over the swell of her belly with the softness of a sigh. Natasha touches-- _ touched _ \--her like this too, softly and sweetly, and Laura hates that Natasha couldn’t see the gentleness that she chose, too blinded by the violence she didn’t. “I know,” he says quietly, stroking her hair. “I wish I could say something more than that, but I--I know, Laur. I can’t even tell you how proud I am of you.”

 

Laura turns her head into his hand, leaning into the gentle pressure of his fingers. “Thank you,” she says, and means it. “No one tells pregnant people that, you know. It’s just  _ aren’t you glowing  _ this and  _ you look ready to pop  _ that.”

 

Clint smiles. “You look beautiful,” he says. 

 

She rolls her eyes, reaching out to tug fondly at his hair. “I look like a house,” she corrects.

 

“A glowing house.” He grins, dipping his head to kiss her, and she tilts her chin up to deepen the kiss, threading her fingers into his hair and tugging him down to her. Clint chuckles against her mouth, pulling back gently. “Hey,” he says, almost teasing. “Take it easy. We’ve got all night.”

 

“Exactly,” Laura says, nipping at his lower lip and then giving his head a playful push down her body. “So get to work.”

 

He leaves three days later, off to depart for a job somewhere in Canada with Natasha, leaving her with a kiss and a promise to be home a week before the baby’s due. Cooper makes him pinky swear, and he does, laughing, linking his pinky with Cooper’s.

 

And then he’s gone.

 

And two weeks before Baby Barton the Second is due to make its appearance, Laura wakes up at four in the morning with a contraction. It’s not a strong one, but she immediately recognizes it as  _ real _ , not Braxton-Hicks, and swears. She fumbles on the bedside table for her phone and starts to dial Clint, and then stops, biting her lip.

 

She wants to call him, she  _ wants  _ to, but…She chews her lower lip, thinking. She has an emergency number for him; he makes sure to give her one before each job that goes to a burner phone he’ll bring with him. But if she calls him in the middle of a job, she might put him in danger, and she knows instinctively that she won’t be able to live with herself if that happens.

 

She suddenly finds herself missing Natasha, deeply and with a yearning that hasn’t struck her so strongly in months. Natasha would know what to do. She always does. Laura bites back tears, pressing a hand to her belly, feeling the baby move under her palm, its heartbeat strong and steady. She times her breaths to the baby’s fluttering heartbeat, willing herself to stay calm for her other baby, the one still sleeping soundly in his room down the hall.

 

There’s another number she can call, she knows. It’s a number on a business card shoved into the back of the drawer of Clint’s desk, and Laura takes deep breath after deep breath, knowing that she  _ should  _ try to go back to sleep, or at the very least to try and rest. 

 

_ Yeah, right _ , she thinks, and rolls carefully out of bed, turning on the light on Clint’s desk and pulling open the drawer. She makes a face at the chaos inside it, trying to sort through it to find the card. For a few terrifying moments she thinks that maybe Clint’s thrown it away or lost it, but then the familiar eagle insignia catches her eye, and she breathes an immediate sigh of relief. “Gotcha,” Laura says out loud, carrying the card back to bed and climbing back under the covers, leaning against her pillows with her phone and dialing the number.

 

The line rings, and rings, and rings, and then a voice picks up, tight and clipped. “Coulson,” it says.

 

“Hi,” Laura says, feeling suddenly awkward. The baby jabs an elbow against her belly, and Laura touches it with two fingers. “This is Laura Barton. I think you know my husband?”

 

There’s a pause, and then the voice, much gentler now, says, “Yes, Mrs. Barton. This is Agent Phil Coulson, I work with Clint. Is everything alright?”

 

“It’s--um.” She swallows hard. “Yes. Except that I’m in labor, and Clint’s not supposed to be home for another week, and--” She realizes that her pulse is beating faster, and takes a careful breath. “Is there any way you can send him home?”

 

Coulson is quiet for a moment, and Laura’s heart leaps suddenly into her throat. “Oh God,” she says, her blood running cold. “Is he all right? Is Natasha all right?”

 

“Yes, of course,” Coulson says, too quickly for Laura’s comfort, but he keeps talking before she can interject. “Mrs. Barton, this goes against just about every protocol SHIELD has, but I’m going to be honest with you, you’re the first person to ever call me mid-mission to ask. I’m going to do everything I can do to get Clint home to you as soon as I can, okay?”

 

“Or Natasha,” she says before she can stop herself, and she winces, knowing she probably shouldn’t have said that. 

 

But if Coulson’s surprised, she doesn’t hear it in his voice. “Or Natasha,” he agrees. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Barton, but I need to go.”

 

“Okay,” she agrees, and waits to hear the  _ click _ before she puts the phone back down on the bedclothes. “Okay,” she breathes, blinking tears away from her eyes, because it’s two in the morning and she’s in labor and she’s alone. “Okay, okay, okay.”

 

She takes a deep breath, curls back up in bed, and tries to go to sleep.

 

Ten hours later, she’s in the living room with Cooper, breathing carefully through a contraction while Cooper happily colors a picture at the coffee table, none the wiser. Her contractions are six minutes apart, strong but not overpowering yet, and her parents are an hour away, driving up route 80 towards her. She can do this, she tells herself, smiling encouragingly at Cooper as he holds up his picture, she only needs to hold it together a little while longer. “Great job, baby,” she says, smiling at him. 

 

A knock sounds at the front door, and Laura’s head snaps up. “Cooper, stay here,” she orders, gentle but firm, maneuvering herself to her feet to see who it is.

 

It takes her the better part of a minute to make her way to the door, breathing as she walks, willing her uterus to keep itself under control. She turns the knob, and nearly faints as she opens the door.

 

Natasha stands on the porch, still in her SHIELD uniform. She looks worried and uncertain, almost hesitant as she looks at Laura. “I wasn’t sure if I should let myself in,” she says, and then her gaze drops to Laura’s belly. “Oh,” she breathes, her voice touched with awe. “Oh,  _ Laura _ .”

 

Laura bursts into tears. She throws herself forward before she can stop herself, flinging her arms around Natasha’s neck. Natasha catches her and holds on tight, burying her face in Laura’s hair. “You  _ came _ ,” Laura sobs, clutching her fingers into the fabric of Natasha’s jacket. “I thought you wouldn’t, and I was going to be alone, and I thought you didn’t want--that you wouldn’t--Oh,  _ fuck _ .”

 

The contraction hits her hard and she sucks in a breath, her knees nearly buckling. Natasha’s arms lock around her waist and hold her steady, and she kisses Laura’s head. “Breathe through it, good girl,” she says, calm but slightly strained, and Laura chokes out a laugh, because that’s so  _ Natasha _ , to try and make her feel better even when she’s reeling herself. 

 

“I’m good, I’m okay,” she says, breathing through her nose and out through her mouth as the contraction eases. She glances at her watch and winces, they’re getting closer together. “Tasha, you  _ came _ .”

 

“Of course I came,” Natasha says, smoothing Laura’s hair back. “I’m so sorry, Laura, I didn’t realize that you’d think I didn’t--that I wouldn’t--” She swallows visibly, and kisses Laura’s temple. “Of course I came.”

 

Laura sniffles, wiping her eyes. “And Clint?”

 

Natasha bites her lower lip. “He’ll be here when he can,” she promises, and Laura feels her heart clench at the expression on her face, because that’s the face Natasha makes when she’s hiding something, but before she can say something, she feels something else altogether.

 

“Tasha?”

 

Natasha brushes her hair back, her fingers tender and soft. “Yes?”

 

Laura swallows. “My water just broke.”

 

Natasha pales, takes a breath, and then smiles at Laura like she’s the sun. “Okay,” she says, and her voice is calm and soft and so full of love that Laura would start to cry again if she wasn’t too busy trying to keep her breathing steady. “Let’s go have a baby.”

 

It takes them the better part of an hour to actually get out the door and on the road to the hospital. Cooper has an absolute meltdown when he realizes that Natasha has come back but is going to leave again to bring Laura to the hospital, and stubbornly refuses to let go of her, even when Laura’s parents pull into the driveway to watch him. Then it’s Laura’s turn to break down, realizing that this is the last time Cooper will be her only baby and the next time she sees him he’ll be a big brother. She bursts into tears again and pulls Cooper into her arms, which sets Cooper off again at seeing  _ her  _ cry, and it takes both her parents to extricate Cooper from her grasp and help Natasha urge her out to the car. Laura covers Cooper’s face with kisses and puts on a brave face as they pull away from the house, and then sobs all the way to the hospital while Natasha drives one-handed so that she can rub Laura’s back with the hand that isn’t on the steering wheel.

 

Laura’s midwife meets them in the hospital lobby. The calm, soothing smile on her face takes some of the anxiety out of Laura’s muscles, and she feels a sudden surge of gratitude that she’d pressed her phone into Natasha’s hands and told her to call her as they’d left the house. “Oh, I know that face,” she says knowingly, taking Laura’s hands in hers. “That’s the  _ just realized my baby isn’t going to be my only baby anymore _ face, isn’t it?” Laura sniffles and smiles tearfully, a little sheepish now, and Shana squeezes her hands gently. “I’ve seen it a few times before. Come on, honey, let’s get you checked in.”

 

Natasha hesitates, Laura’s hospital bag slung over her shoulder. “Should I,” she begins, a little uncertain.

 

Laura shoots out a hand and grabs Natasha’s wrist. “If you leave me,” she says through gritted teeth as another contraction hits, “I will kill you.”

 

“You heard the lady,” Shana says cheerfully, giving Natasha a disarming smile. “Off we go to registration.”

 

Her contractions come in waves as she signs her name on what feels like a hundred pages of paperwork, and Laura breathes through them, counting her breaths and grounding herself on the pressure of Natasha’s hand on the small of her back. Every sound of the automatic doors opening behind her makes her turn, hoping against hope to see Clint running toward them, and her heart starts pounding at the slowly growing fear that he might not be here to see their baby born.

 

As if sensing her thoughts, Natasha rests a cool hand against the back of her neck. “Hey,” she says quietly. “It’s gonna be okay.”

 

Laura swallows, reaching back and taking Natasha’s hand in hers, squeezing hard and holding on like a lifeline.

 

In the end, Clint makes it, but only barely.

 

“Laura, honey,” Shana says, on her stool between Laura’s legs, one hand gentle but firm on the rise of Laura’s belly. Her voice is calm, but there’s a slight edge of urgency to it. “You’re going to need to start pushing soon.”

 

Laura shakes her head, her hair sticking damply to her forehead. She’s propped up against the pillows on the bed, overwhelmed with the urge to push but unable to make herself do it. “I can’t.”

 

Natasha smoothes her hair gently. “Yes you can, Laura.”

 

“No.” She clenches her hand around Natasha’s fingers. “Not without Clint.”

 

“We can’t wait for Clint, Laur,” Natasha says. “I know I haven’t been here, but I’m here now, and--”

 

“I need  _ both  _ of you,” Laura says, the words coming out wet and tearful. She means for the birth, but even as she says it, she knows that it’s so much bigger than that. It was always, always supposed to be all three of them.

 

Natasha opens her mouth, as if to respond, but before she can speak there’s a commotion outside the door. “Sir,” someone is saying, loud and firm, “Sir, you can’t go in there, you’re not--”

 

“The hell I  _ can’t _ .” Clint’s voice, blessedly firm and familiar, comes through, and Laura nearly cries with relief. “That’s my wife in there!”

 

“Tasha,” Laura says, but Natasha’s already moving, running for the door and yanking it open. She says something scathing to the people outside that Laura can’t make out, and then a hard contraction hits her, so strong she has to close her eyes and cry out.

 

When she opens her eyes, Clint is there, a hospital gown pulled over what looks like his tac uniform and fresh bruising along one side of his face, a bandage taped into place on his cheek. She reaches for him, and he takes her hand in both of his, pressing his lips firmly to her knuckles. “Hey, gorgeous,” he says, smiling with just a hint of cheek, his eyes wet and shining. 

 

Laura curls her other hand into the neck of his gown and drags him forward for a firm, fierce kiss. “I’m going to kill you,” she says, and then, “You’re hurt. Are you okay?”

 

Clint laughs, kissing her lips again. “I’m fine. Are you kidding? We’re having another baby, I’m amazing.” He squeezes her hand. “I can’t believe you started the party without me.”

 

“She nearly finished the party without you,” Shana says dryly, her tone almost casual, as if she doesn’t have a hand inside Laura to check her cervix. “That’s you fully dilated, Laura. I need you to push for me on the next contraction, okay?”

 

Laura takes a deep breath, curling her fingers tight around Clint’s hand, the pressure of Natasha’s arm tight around her shoulders. She can do this. She can do anything. “Okay.”

 

Seven minutes later, her daughter screams into the world, tiny and pink and perfect. Shana lays her on Laura’s chest and Laura bursts into tears for what feels like the tenth time since she woke, wrapping her arms around her. “Hello, beautiful,” she whispers, and her daughter opens her eyes and quiets at the sight of her, her tiny fists waving. “Hello, hello, hello.”

 

“She’s perfect,” Natasha breathes, her voice wet and awed. She reaches out, touching tender fingers to the crown of the baby’s head. “Oh, Laura, look at her.”

 

Clint says nothing, just rests his head against hers, his arm curling around Laura’s shaking one, and he presses a kiss to her hair. Laura leans into his touch and then looks at Natasha. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice hoarse. “Thank you for being here. I wasn’t sure--” she swallows hard, her mouth dry. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

 

Natasha closes her eyes briefly, and Laura can see the tears clinging to her eyelashes. Someday, she thinks, they’ll all be able to be in a room without crying. She opens her eyes again and leans over, resting her forehead against Laura’s. “I’ll always be here,” she says. She says it quietly, but Laura can hear the promise in it. “Whatever we are to each other. I’ll always be here.” She lifts her head, kissing Laura’s forehead, and then smiles softly, looking down at the baby, who has squirmed her way to Laura’s nipple and latched on like an expert, suckling away. Exhausted, Laura had barely noticed. “What do you think we should name her?”

 

Laura looks out the window. Outside, the sun has begun to sink over the horizon, the first lines of deep blue and pink and gold beginning to streak across the sky as the world shifts into the gentle darkness of night. She and Clint had talked about names, but had been reluctant to settle on one. But now, the combination they’d batted around finally seems to fit. “Lila,” she says, looking down at her daughter, feeling safe and held and surrounded by love. “Lila Ruth.”

 

Natasha smiles. “I love it.”

 

**2015**

 

The evening had cooled down into darkness by the time Natasha made her way upstairs to check in on Lila, a glass of ginger ale in one hand. She tapped gently on the door to Lila’s bedroom. “Knock, knock,” she called quietly, opening it.

 

Lila and Clint were curled together on Lila’s bed, Lila tucked into the crook of Clint’s arm, a copy of  _ The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh  _ open between them. Lila’s head rested against Clint’s shoulder, her arms tucked around her stuffed wolf, her face flushed and miserable. Her expression brightened slightly when she saw Natasha. “Auntie Nat!” she exclaimed, sitting up. 

 

“Hi, beautiful,” Natasha said, setting the ginger ale down on Lila’s bedside table and sitting down on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?” 

 

“Better,” Lila said, wiggling her toes under the blanket. “My tummy still hurts but I haven’t thrown up in two whole hours.”

 

“We’re very excited about this,” Clint added with a slightly pained smile, shifting and rotating his shoulder as Lila took her weight off it. “You should congratulate her.”

 

“Definitely congratulations,” Natasha agreed. She put a hand against Lila’s cheek. Her skin was still warm and fevered, but certainly not dangerously so--nothing like the fevers she had held Clint through after infected wounds so many times. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, honey. Do you want to drink some ginger ale?”

 

Lila made a face. “I already drank so  _ much _ ,” she said, giving Natasha a dramatic look. 

 

“It’ll help your stomach settle before bed,” Clint said, gentle but firm, and Natasha smiled. Dad Voice. “Come on, kiddo. Mom’ll want to see that glass empty when she comes up to kiss you goodnight.”

 

Lila heaved a world-weary sigh, but let Natasha hand her the glass of ginger ale. “ _ You  _ could drink some,” she suggested slyly.

 

Clint snorted. “Cheeky,” he said. “You get that from your Aunt Nat, you know. None of that sass came from me or your mom.”

 

“Mommy’s sassy,” Lila said, matter-of-fact. “She says you just don’t notice.”

 

Clint looked almost wounded. “Just for that,” he said, “no Auntie Nat story for bedtime.”

 

Natasha arched an eyebrow. “Auntie Nat story?” she echoed.

 

Lila smiled brightly at her. “Daddy tells stories about your adventures,” she said. 

 

“Really,” she said dryly, looking at Clint. He blinked innocently back, just about batting his eyelashes at her, and she rolled her eyes. “I’d  _ love  _ to hear an Auntie Nat story.”

 

Clint hummed thoughtfully. “Hm,” he said, tapping his chin. “I don’t know…”

 

“Daddy,” Lila whined, and Clint laughed gently, kissing the top of her head. 

 

“I’m just kidding, baby,” he said. “Finish your ginger ale and we’ll do a story.”

 

Obediently, Lila drained the rest of the cup, handing it back to Natasha and then snuggling back under the blankets. She took hold of Clint’s arm and wrapped it firmly around her shoulders, and his face fairly melted to soft affection. “Story,” she prompted, and Clint gave himself a bit of a shake. 

 

“You got it,” he said. He glanced at Natasha, playfulness dancing in his eyes. “You staying, Auntie Nat?”

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this,” she said, shifting to sit cross-legged on the bed. Lila took a stuffed bear from the mountain of animals she’d arranged around herself and handed it to her, and Natasha accepted it gravely, setting it in her lap and turning it to face Clint. Lila nodded in satisfaction at the gesture, and Natasha couldn’t help smiling back, glancing at Clint. “Go on, Hawkeye.”

 

Clint grinned at her, stretching his legs out and adjusting his arm where it lay across Lila’s shoulders. “Right,” he said. “Now. Once upon a time, Dad and Auntie Nat were way up in Canada, on a secret spy mission for SHIELD. Some very bad guys had stolen some important stuff, and we had to go get the important stuff back.”

 

Natasha realized what job he was talking about, and tightened her hands around the paws of the stuffed bear. Clint glanced her way, his eyes soft and reassuring. “Now, Dad and Auntie Nat got into a bit of an argument about the way to handle this particular retrieval.” Natasha snorted.  _ A bit of an argument  _ was putting it gently, but she didn’t interrupt, just let Clint continue. “Auntie Nat wanted to get some intel from a few different places, and Dad wanted to just go in and get the job done.”

 

Lila looked up at him, surprise in her face. “I thought you didn’t like rushing into stuff.”

 

Natasha snickered at that. Clint made a face at her. “I may have done a lot of rushing in my  _ youth _ ,” he said, lifting a middle finger in Natasha’s direction while Lila’s head was turned. “But you’re right, I stopped doing as much of it. But during this job, I was a rushing again.”

 

“How come?” Lila asked curiously.

 

“Because,” Clint said. “ _ You  _ were due to be arriving any time, and I wanted to get home to see it.”

 

Lila’s expression perked up. “Am  _ I  _ in this story?”

 

“You make an appearance at the end,” Clint said, grinning down at her, and Natasha smiled, running her thumbs along the teddy bear’s well-loved fur. “Now, Dad and Aunt Nat had gotten into this argument, and didn’t really come up to an agreement. So Dad decided to do something very, very dumb.”

 

“Understatement,” Natasha said dryly.

 

“ _ Shh _ , Auntie Nat,” Lila said. “No interrupting during story time.”

 

“Yeah, Auntie Nat,” Clint teased. Natasha rolled her eyes at him, motioning for him to continue, and Clint chuckled. “Anyway. Dad decided that the best thing to do would be to just go right into where the bad guys were hiding and take the stuff back to SHIELD. Only he got caught by the bad guys.” He paused, as if for effect, but Lila didn’t seem phased. Clint frowned at her. “What, nothing?”

 

“Daddy,” she said, patiently. “You’re here. So  _ obviously  _ you were okay.”

 

Natasha grinned. “She’s got you there, Barton.”

 

Clint stuck his tongue out at her. “Fine,” he said. “Be that way. So Dad got caught by the bad guys, and Aunt Nat was going to go get him back and shoot a whole bunch of bad people.”

 

Lila snuggled closer to him. “So she rescued you?”

 

“No,” Clint said. He kissed the top of her head. “She did something much, much more important.”

 

Lila looked up at him, curious. “What’s that?”

 

“She came here,” he said, smiling softly. “To help your mom. See, monkey, you decided to make your appearance early, and Mom was here all by herself, and Cooper was too little to help her. So Mom called Dad’s boss, and he told Aunt Nat, and she knew that if Dad were there, he’d tell her to get her butt home to help Mom, because Dad could take care of himself.”

 

“Ha,” Natasha said, but she knew she was smiling. At the time, Phil’s call had made her blood run cold, but as awful as leaving Clint had been, there had never been a question. Between any of them, Laura came first. She always came first. 

 

Lila shushed her again. “So what happened next?”

 

“You did, monkey,” Clint said. “Aunt Nat came home to get Mom, and she made sure that Mom felt safe and loved and good while she brought you into the world.”

 

“But you were there when I was born,” Lila said, squirming a bit under Clint’s arm to resituate herself. “Mommy said so.”

 

“I was,” Clint agreed, and Natasha  _ still _ hadn’t heard the whole story of how he managed that, though she’d seen the scars, barely stitched together under the hospital gown he’d thrown on for Lila’s birth when he’d burst into the delivery room. “But Auntie Nat was the one who was there for your mom for the whole thing. She was the superhero that got you here.”

 

A lump swelled in Natasha’s throat at the love and warmth in Clint’s voice, and she felt it grow when Lila turned her beaming face toward her. “The  _ superest _ superhero,” Lila said, and then yawned, wide and sleepy. “The superest,” she said again, a little bleary now.

 

Clint smiled. “The end,” he said, sliding his arm out from under Lila and climbing off the bed, tucking her covers around her. “Good story, baby?”

 

“Good story,” Lila agreed, snuggling under the blankets as Clint bent and kissed her head. She turned to Natasha. “Did you like it, Auntie Nat?”

 

“I did, love,” Natasha said, swallowing the lump in her throat and leaning over as Lila held her arms out, folding Clint’s daughter into her arms. 

 

Lila snuggled close to her, pressing her cheek against Natasha’s. “Auntie Nat?” she said suddenly, pulling back. 

 

Natasha stroked her hair back gently, tucking a few loose hands behind one of Lila’s ears. “Yes, baby?”

 

Lila smiled sleepily at her. “I love you,” she said.

 

Natasha blinked, surprised. She glanced up at Clint, who was lingering by the door, but his expression was soft and tender, as he looked at them, his arms crossed over his chest. She swallowed, leaning down to kiss Lila’s forehead. “I love you too, sweetheart,” she whispered, meaning it with everything she had. “Now go to sleep, honey. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

 

“Okay,” Lila agreed, nodding and snuggling down under her blankets. 

 

Smoothing Lila’s blankets down one more time, Natasha climbed to her feet and left the room, brushing past Clint. He followed her, closing the door behind them with a gentle click, and she turned to look at him. “Not a word,” she said warningly. 

 

Clint smiled at her. “I wouldn’t dream of it, superest superhero,” he said. His voice was light and teasing and warm with love, and if she leaned a little more firmly than usual into his side when he slung an arm around her shoulders as they went back downstairs, he was nice enough not to comment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: implied suicidal ideation, panic attacks, mention of vomiting, consensual violence between male and female characters, childbirth
> 
> So here it is, folks--a turning point that I think a lot of you have expected. This chapter and the last one are obviously pretty closely linked, but just remember that I do not _like_ hurting you guys, even though your tears give me life and fill me with glee. 
> 
> Many, many thanks to [deb](http://debz0rz.tumblr.com) for her editing, affection, and eternal love, [isjustprogress](http://isjustprogress.tumblr.com) for the encouragement, immensely traumatizing _Hamilton_ lyric mashups (also thanks to [nathanielbarton](http://nathanielbarton.tumblr.com) for those, you jerk) and cute videos of babies and dogs, and everyone who has left kudos and comments. Y'all are the best. :) 
> 
> Questions? Comments? Visit me [on tumblr](http://geniusorinsanity.tumblr.com)!


	13. Chapter 13

**2015**

 

Lila’s stomach bug kept her up most of the night, and Clint, starting a load of laundry after she had thrown up in her spare sheets, found himself blearily trying to remember the last time he’d gotten a full night’s sleep. Not that he blamed Lila, obviously, that wouldn’t be anywhere near fair, but he was _tired_.

 

 

Natasha met him at the top of the basement stairs as he came up from the laundry room. “Hey,” she said, faint circles smudged under her eyes. “How are you doing?”

 

“Cranky,” Clint said, too tired to mince words. He dropped his head onto her shoulder, more out of habit than anything else, taking advantage of how pathetic he looked and knowing it. Sure enough, Natasha reached up a hand and stroked her fingers through his hair, and he closed his eyes. “I hate stomach viruses,” he said, tilting his head into her touch.

 

She hummed. “I know you hate when she’s sick,” she said, her tone touched with sympathy and a hint of wistfulness.

 

Clint shook his head, not lifting it from her shoulder. “I mean, yes,” he said. “But at least when she has a cold or the flu she’s miserable in a way that doesn’t involve mopping up puke and doing a ton of laundry at three in the morning.”

 

“Two-thirty,” Natasha corrected, but wry humor lilted at the edges of her voice. “Should I tell Laura that you’re feeling very inconvenienced by Lila being sick?”

 

“Depends,” he said. “Do you think she’ll murder me? I’m just asking because then I’d be able to get some sleep.”

 

Natasha chuckled. “You knew what you were getting yourself into,” she said.

 

“Yeah, but I thought it was going to be all, y’know, baseball games and dollhouses and…” He rooted around in his thoughts for a third cliche of parenthood, and gave up, trying to snuggle his forehead further into her shoulder. “That stuff,” he finished lamely.

 

“Well, you started strong.” She patted his neck and rolled her shoulders back, dislodging his head. He made a disgruntled sound, and she snorted. “Tough,” she said. “Go back to bed, Clint.”

 

“Can’t,” he said, gesturing sleepily to the basement stairs. “Laundry.”

 

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Couch, then,” she said. “Come on, I’ll make us something to eat.”

 

He frowned at her. “No reason for you to be up,” he protested.

 

“I could never sleep when they were sick,” she said, shrugging as if to try and pass it off as an almost offhand comment. Clint narrowed his eyes, but Natasha didn’t give him time to say anything, just took him by the arm and pulled him toward the living room, pushing him gently down onto the couch. “What do you want?”

 

“Nachos,” he said, dragging his legs up onto the couch with a groan as his aching muscles settled down into the worn cushions.

 

Natasha, who had started to head into the kitchen, paused and looked back at him, raising a skeptical brow. “Seriously?”

 

He cracked one eye open, groping over his head for the throw blanket that always laid over the back of the couch. “You asked.”

 

She shook her head. “I am amazed that you pass as an adult,” she said, and left the room.

 

“Tortilla chips are in the pantry,” he called, closing his eyes.

 

He must have dozed, because the next thing he knew, the couch was dipping down beside him, Natasha’s fingers dipping into his hair. For a moment he thought she might just pet it gently and relax with him, but then she grabbed a few strands and yanked. He jolted into full consciousness, muffling a yelp to avoid waking the rest of the house. “What the hell, Nat?” he complained.

 

“Oh, shush,” Natasha said, leaning back on the couch, heedless of the fact that the weight of her torso was crushing his internal--and some external--organs. “I’m making you nachos.”

 

“Which I appreciate,” he said, poking at her side. “But would you mind getting your elbow out of my balls while you do?”

 

Natasha snorted and lifted off him so that he could adjust, and then promptly leaned down again. “Such a romantic, Barton. How does Laura ever let you out of her sight?”

 

“I’m romantic,” he said, closing his eyes again. “I’m gonna share my nachos with you, how much more romance do you want?”

 

“I’m not the person you need to woo,” she said, but laughed, scratching at the stubble on his chin. “You need to shave.”

 

Clint didn’t bother opening his eyes at that. “Your face needs to shave.”

 

“I don’t even want to dignify that with a response.”

 

“Your face doesn’t want to dignify that with a response,” he replied sleepily. Maybe she’d let him go back to sleep while the nachos were baking.

 

“You are awful,” she told him.

 

Clint grinned at the fondness she wasn’t able to keep out of her voice. “Your face is--”

 

A pillow landed on his face and pressed down, hard enough for play-fighting but nowhere near hard enough to actually smother--and he knew Natasha knew the difference--and Clint made a show of pretending to flail and twitch, flopping one arm and pawing at Natasha’s shoulder with the other as she snickered above him.

 

There was a sharp gasp from across the room. “What are you doing?”

 

The pillow left his face, and Clint felt the cool air of the living room brush over his skin as he pushed himself to his elbows. Wanda stood at the bottom of the stairs, her face pale in the low lamp light of the room, her eyes wide with horror. “Hey,” he said, keeping his voice carefully gentle. “What are you doing up?”

 

“I heard the baby crying and it woke me up, so I came down for water,” she said, still looking nervous. “Were you--what were you doing?”

 

“Just putting Clint out of his misery,” Natasha said, sitting back and dropping the throw pillow into her lap.

 

Wanda blanched. “What?”

 

“Stop it, Nat.” Clint sat up. “We were just messing around, Wanda. Full consent and everything, don’t worry.”

 

She nodded slowly, some of her discomfort fading from her features. “It looked like you were…” She swallowed visibly, looking uncomfortable, and Clint shook his head.

 

“We know what it looked like, but don’t worry. I can count the times we’ve fought for real on one hand,” he said, shooting Natasha a grin.

 

She rolled her eyes. “We could add one more,” she said, brandishing the pillow.

 

Wanda sat down on the edge of the armchair, tugging her sweatshirt around herself. “You’ve fought before?”

 

“Fortunately, Clint’s not a sore loser,” Natasha said, shooting him a wry smile.

 

“And fortunately for Nat, I’ll be friends with her no matter how hard she hits me,” he shot back, and she laughed, climbing to her feet.

 

“I’m going to check the nachos,” she said. “Wanda, you want any?”

 

“No, thank you,” Wanda said. She followed Natasha with her eyes as she left the room, and then looked at Clint curiously. “Why are you two awake?”

 

Clint stretched out his legs, wincing. “I was up putting Lila’s sheets in the wash,” he said. “Nat’s just not a good sleeper when the kids are sick. She goes into aunt mode.”

 

“She’s very attentive for an aunt,” Wanda said quietly, looking thoughtfully at him.

 

He raised a brow. “What do you mean by that?”

 

Wanda gazed into the kitchen, the look in her eyes unreadable. “I know that Natasha can’t have children,” she said softly. “I know it wasn’t my place to know that, but I saw, in South Africa, what it would take to shake her.” Clint flexed his fingers at that, tightening his grip into the fabric of the blanket. Wanda had been working for Ultron then, he knew that, but seeing Natasha after Wanda’s attack and had flooded his veins with the sort of cold rage he hadn’t felt since he’d leveled an arrow at Loki’s eye. “But with yours, she looks at them with such love, so much care...it is almost as if they are her own.”

 

Clint kept his features calm. “Nat’s been a part of my family for a long time,” he said carefully. “The kids have grown up with her. They trust her and love her just like they do me and Laura, and Natasha...that means a lot to her. It makes her protective.”

 

“And that’s all?”

 

Clint inclined his head. “What are you asking me, Wanda?”

 

Wanda’s lips parted, her expression hesitant, but before she could say anything else, Natasha came back, carrying a baking sheet in one hand and a small bowl in the other. “You only had mild salsa,” she said, setting both down on the coffee table. “I have never been more disappointed with you.”

 

“It’s not my fault, Laura swore off the good stuff while she was pregnant, said the smell of it made her sick. She made me take it all out of the house.” Clint plucked a tortilla chip from the cheesy pile on the baking sheet, ignoring the heat on his hands. “Then I just never bought more.”

 

“Still disappointed,” Natasha said, plopping down on the couch next to him. She glanced at Wanda, who looked caught between amusement and confusion. “Clint used to carry a bottle of hot sauce in his luggage wherever he went,” she explained. “For him not to have anything spicy in the house would be like…”

 

She trailed off, as if trying to come up with something equally implausible. “Like Nat going somewhere without any weapons,” Clint teased.

 

Natasha chuckled, tapping her chip against his in a toast. “Exactly,” she said. She popped the chip into her mouth, glancing between the two of them. “What were you two talking about?”

 

“Your violent tendencies,” Clint said, gesturing with his chip-less hand to the throw pillow that Natasha had dropped into the corner of the couch when she’d left for the kitchen. “We were thinking you might benefit from a self-help program.”

 

“I’ll go if you go,” Natasha said immediately. “You can be my sponsor.”

 

Wanda looked back and forth between them. “I don’t know what that means,” she admitted, looking a bit embarrassed.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Clint said, smiling at her. “We’re just giving each other a hard time.”

 

“You do that a lot,” she said, that same unreadable look in her eyes, and Clint shrugged.

 

“Comes with the territory of this many years of putting up with each other,” Natasha said, but she glanced fondly at him. “Some days you’d take a bullet for each other, other days you’d be the one shooting.”

 

Wanda smiled. “I understand that feeling,” she said. “It was like that with Pietro, sometimes.”

 

Clint choked on his chip, coughing hard. Natasha snickered, thumping him on the back. “I don’t think it’s quite the same,” she said. Clint managed to swallow the chip and Natasha’s smacks gentled to light pats, and then to slow, almost absent-minded circles between his shoulder blades.

 

“No,” Wanda said, her smile softening, her eyes thoughtful and strangely knowing. “I don’t suppose that it is.”

 

**2009**

 

Unlike her older brother, who had come home from the hospital apparently determined to be a screaming demon, Lila comes home quiet and sleeps like an angel, content to doze in the arms of whoever happens to be holding her at the time. It’s such an odd contrast to Cooper that Laura spends the first few months of Lila’s life waiting warily for the other shoe to drop.

 

(Then again, she reminds herself whenever those thoughts start to come up, the other shoe dropped before Lila was much bigger than a lima bean.)

 

She settles into life with two children more easily than seems believable. Clint convinces Fury to give him three months of paternity leave, and Laura sleeps easier having him home--not literally, of course; as good a sleeper as Lila is, she still wakes up every two hours to eat. Even without Natasha, they move into a routine: Clint handles the bulk of the diaper changes, telling Laura that it’s only fair since she’s doing all of the feeding, and they trade off singing her to sleep.

 

Still, nights with a newborn are long, and they find themselves awake even when Lila’s sleeping, their bodies not as easily swayed back to sleep as hers.

 

“I miss Natasha,” Laura mumbles one night, her body half-flung over Clint’s and his fingers stroking sleepily through her hair.

 

“I know you do.” Natasha had left only a week after Lila’s birth, and had spent each day she was there with agony in her eyes, sleeping in the guest room and looking constantly torn between folding herself into their arms and avoiding touching them altogether. She calls every few days or so, more to talk to Cooper than either of them, and the time between calls is getting longer. Laura knows she’s trying to wean Cooper off her voice, and hates her for it. “She might come visit.”

 

Laura closes her eyes. Her lids feel heavy, and she wants sleep more than anything else in the world, but she’s tipped over the edge into too exhausted to sleep, and her mind is stubbornly awake. “I don’t know if I really want her to.”

 

Clint’s fingers still in her hair for an instant before resuming their gentle combing. “You sure about that?”

 

“It sounds awful, doesn’t it?” Laura curls her fingers over his ribs, and it says something about how exhausted he is that he doesn’t even flinch at the usually ticklish spot. “But every time she’s here, I just…” She swallows, her eyes too tired to even sting. “I keep waiting for her to come home for real, to come back to us. And she doesn’t.”

 

For a long moment, Clint doesn’t speak. “I don’t know if she’s ever going to,” he says finally, his voice quiet. “You didn’t see her in London, Laur...she was so shaken, like she’d lost everything she ever knew about herself. She asked me to--”

 

He breaks off, his voice choking, and Laura raises her head. In the darkness of their bedroom, Clint’s profile trembles slightly, and Laura touches his cheek gently. “Clint,” she says softly. “What did she ask you to do?”

 

Clint shakes his head, his hand searching out hers in the darkness and finding it, his fingers closing tight around hers. “Nothing,” he said. “Forget I said anything, I shouldn’t--”

 

Laura puts her other hand on his chest. “Clint.”

 

He swallows, his throat moving under her gaze. “She asked me to kill her, Laura.”

 

She sucks in a breath, tensing. “Why?”

 

“What that guy did to her, Laura, she wasn’t...she wasn’t our Natasha. He put something else over her, and it stripped away everything she’d made herself--all the compassion, all the care, all the love.” His grip tightens and slackens around hers, like he’s trying to soothe himself with the steadiness of her pulse. “She would have killed me if I hadn’t snapped her out of it. She nearly _did_ kill me even though I did snap her out of it. And the worst part was, _is_ , she knows that if that son of a bitch finds her, he could do it again.”

 

Laura clenches her fingers around his. “But you wouldn’t kill her,” she says. “Would you?” Clint goes silent, and Laura lifts her head again. “ _Clint_.”

 

“I would. If I really believed that she could be a threat to you or the kids, I would.” He runs his thumb over the back of her hand. “I hate that I said it, even though I knew it was what she needed to hear, but what I really hated was that it was true. And she knew it.” He breathes out slowly through his nose. “Natasha’s been there for me longer than anyone else in my entire life, and I knew that if it came down between her or you and Coop, I’d put a bullet in her.”

 

The absolute certainty in his voice sends a chill through her. “She didn’t say that, when she told us she was leaving.”

 

He snorts. “No,” he says. “If anything, I think that if I hadn’t said it, she wouldn’t even have considered staying. But she made her choice, and I think that until she wipes out every single person who could trigger her, she won’t come back. That’ll be the only way she’ll know for sure that she’s not a threat to us.”

 

Laura feels an overwhelming weariness settle over her shoulders. “That’s too much weight for one person to carry around.”

 

“That’s Natasha for you,” Clint says, a small, sad smile audible in his voice. “She’ll never admit when she’s carrying too much.”

 

There’s a finality in his voice, and Laura knows, deep in her soul, that he’s right. As much as she loves Natasha, she will never know her like Clint does, and if Clint says she’s not going to come back to them until she’s ready, maybe not ever…

 

So she tries, as much as she can, to move on.

 

She throws herself into motherhood, letting herself enjoy her maternity leave and pretends she’s just a regular wife with a regular husband, with the two most beautiful children in the world.

 

Her bright, wonderful Cooper _adores_ being a big brother. He’d observed Laura’s pregnancy with fascination, watching her belly grow and asking constant questions: “Was _I_ in there, too?” “How did the baby get in there?” “How is it gonna come out?” Laura had answered with amusement and as much information as had seemed age-appropriate, watching the curiosity and excitement blossom in his dark eyes.

 

Now that Lila is here, he loves to watch her, lying beside her on her playmat and letting her curl her tiny fingers around his barely larger ones. Her first real smile is for him, and Laura snaps more pictures than she’ll ever get developed. She teaches him how to hold her when they bring her home for the hospital, and her rambunctious little boy turns into a careful older brother, always supporting her head and adjusting her little hats and finding the socks that always seem to fall off her tiny feet.

 

“I’m her favorite,” he tells Laura one morning, when Lila is two months old. It’s nearly Thanksgiving, and it’s been a cold autumn, a slight frost already ghosting the grass around the farm with silver lacework.

 

“Oh?” Laura hands him a plate with his lunch, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a handful of grape tomatoes. He’s a messy and adorable eater, and Laura thanks the heavens for the latter because the former drives her crazy. “What makes you say that?”

 

“She smiles like this,” he says, giving her a huge grin, bits of bread and jelly flecked in his teeth. Laura snorts out a laugh, adjusting Lila in her arms while her daughter eats at her breast.

 

“She smiles for Mommy and Daddy, too,” Laura tells him, although part of her knows that he’s right. Lila’s face lights up when she sees Laura or Clint, but she gets absolutely giddy when Cooper comes to play with her, or picks her up from the floor.

 

Cooper gives her a knowing look, as if he can tell exactly what she’s thinking. “I’m _special_ , Mommy,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’m the big brother.”

 

Laura can’t help a grin. “Yes, sweetheart,” she says. “Yes, you are.”

 

The only time that Cooper’s happiness fades is at night.

 

Bedtime has been a fight ever since Natasha left. He starts frowning after dinner, looking expectantly at the door, a furrow appearing between his brows, and Laura finds herself looking at Clint, tired and steeling herself. By the time they coax him upstairs for his bedtime back his face is tearful and trembling, and he’s sniffling when he’s in his pajamas. They haven’t gotten quite to the point of a rocks-paper-scissors game to determine who will have to handle Cooper’s borderline tantrum of the night, but it’s close.

 

(“Maybe we should have him talk to someone,” Laura says carefully one night when Cooper has finally dropped off to sleep, his face tear-streaked and unhappy. “A professional.”

 

Clint runs a hand tiredly through his hair, holding Lila secure in his other arm. “What are they gonna do for him, Laura? He’s sad. He misses his mom.”

 

Laura knows she should bristle at that, but she doesn’t. She’s too tired herself, and misses Natasha too much. “I don’t know. Help him talk about it?”

 

“Talking about it’s not his problem,” Clint says, and as much as it kills her to see her baby boy cry, she knows he’s right.)

 

Natasha comes back at the end of Clint’s paternity leave and stays for a week. Cooper flings himself into her arms the moment she walks through the door, twining himself around her like an octopus and bursting into tears, and Natasha spends the better part of half an hour sitting on the floor with him, stroking his dark hair and murmuring quietly to him in Russian. Laura watches from the couch, rocking Lila in her arms and trying not to cry, Clint’s thumbs rubbing soothing circles on her shoulders.

 

“Why doesn’t Mama Tasha stay?” Cooper asks Laura that night when she tucks him into bed, going down without a fight for the first time in months. Natasha had curled up beside him and read him a story, and then had kissed the top of his head and left the room, her eyes bright with tears.

 

“She lives somewhere else now,” Laura says, smoothing his hair back and finding Mookey under the folds of his blanket, handing it to him.

 

“But why?” Cooper insists.

 

Laura closes her eyes briefly. “Sometimes grown-ups go away, honey,” she says softly. “It doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you anymore.”

 

Cooper’s lower lip trembles. “But I _miss_ her.”

 

“I know, sweetheart,” Laura says, her heart breaking. “But she comes back sometimes to see you. She loves you very much.”

 

He looks at her, his dark eyes serious and sad. “Does she still love you and Daddy?”

 

Laura’s heart clenches in her chest. Her brilliant boy, as observant as his father. “Yes,” she says. “She does. But she just can’t live with us right now.”

 

Cooper chews his bottom lip, quiet for a long moment before he says, very softly, “I’m sad.”

 

“I know, love,” Laura whispers, bending to kiss his forehead. “I am, too.”

 

He reaches up and wraps his small arms around her neck, hugging her tight. “You won’t leave, Mommy?”

 

“No, sweetheart,” Laura says, holding him fiercely. “Never ever.”

 

She sits with him until he falls asleep, Mookey clutched in his arm, and then she wipes her eyes and leaves the room, closing the door gently behind her. She goes downstairs, suddenly glad that she’d pumped earlier that day, because she needs a drink, and she needs one badly.

 

Natasha is sitting on the couch, looking very small and alone, her arms wrapped around herself. Clint’s still upstairs, giving Lila a bath, and Laura goes into the kitchen, opening the cabinet where they keep the few bottles of liquor that stay in the house and plucking out a bottle of whiskey. It had been an anniversary present from her brother Danny, and she thinks with a twinge that it’s oddly fitting.

 

She pulls two glasses from a shelf and goes back into the living room, sitting down next to Natasha and putting the glasses down on the table. She pours a generous amount of whiskey into each one and slides one to Natasha. “Take it,” she says.

 

Natasha glances at her, her eyes questioning, but she picks up the glass.

 

Laura picks up her own, turning it in her hand before taking a sip. It’s her first drink of liquor in nearly a year and it burns down her throat, but she doesn’t care. “I’m so angry at you,” she says, not looking at her.

 

Beside her, Natasha doesn’t say anything, but Laura sees her shoulders tense slightly out of the corner of her eye.

 

“You made a promise to us,” she says. “To both of us. ‘Every day for the rest of your life,’ you said. And you just--”

 

Her voice catches, and she swallows, because she doesn’t want to cry. She’s angry, and she doesn’t want to ruin her anger with tears. “You left us,” she whispers. “But you didn’t just leave us, Tasha, you left _Cooper_ , and he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand how one of his mothers can just leave him behind.”

 

Natasha flinches at that. “It’s to protect him,” she says. “To protect all of you.”

 

“You think he’s protected?” Laura says sharply. “He cries every night because you’re not there to kiss him goodnight. He asks for you all the time. He asks me if you don’t love him anymore, because that’s the only way it makes sense to him that you’re not _here_.”

 

Natasha’s fingers tighten around her glass. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come back,” she says dully. “If it just makes it harder for you, maybe I should just--”

 

“No,” Laura snaps. “No. You can leave this marriage, Natasha, if you’re so convinced that you’re not safe to be part of it, but you can _not_ abandon your children. We brought those babies into this world together--we planned them together, we conceived them together, we delivered them together. You _do not_ get to leave them behind.”

 

“I can’t be their mother, Laura,” Natasha says, fire in her tone for the first time. “I might not know much about being a parent, but I know you can’t do it part-time.”

 

“Then don’t be their mother,” Laura says, downing her drink and pouring herself another two fingers. “Be their aunt. Be Auntie Nat, who comes and stays with them, who plays and gives advice and cuddles on the couch and then goes away again until next time. But you don’t get to just leave.”

 

Natasha is quiet, turning her glass in her hands. Then she knocks it back, putting it down on the table and reaching for the bottle. She pours another drink and then sits back, running a hand through her hair. She’s growing it out, and it spills in dark red curls over her shoulders. “Auntie Nat,” she says softly. “I can be Auntie Nat.”

 

“Good,” Laura says, and she wants to sound firm and fierce, but the weariness in Natasha’s voice cools some of the fury in her veins. She sighs then, rubbing a hand over her eyes and then taking a sip of her drink. Her fingers tingle around the cool glass, her cheeks warm as the liquor starts to take effect.

 

“What about us?”

 

Natasha’s question takes her by surprise, and Laura looks at her. Natasha is looking at her with uncertainty in her eyes, her own cheeks flushed faintly pink from the alcohol. Laura swallows. “What about us?”

 

“If I’m Auntie Nat to the kids,” Natasha says, hesitant but clear, like she’s forcing herself to say it, “what am I to you?”

 

Laura thinks about that, because it occurs to her only then that she hasn’t given it any thought before. “We never got to be friends,” she says finally, slowly. “We were strangers, and then we were bonding over Clint and just trying to get him back to life, and then we were lovers. But we were never friends.” She takes a deep breath. “Maybe...maybe we try that.”

 

Natasha’s expression is unreadable, torn somewhere between longing and vulnerability. And then slowly, she smiles, soft and small. “Friends would be good,” she says.

 

Laura looks at her, trying to read her face, looking for the surety and calm of the lover she’d known for years somewhere in the woman who sat beside her. There are traces of her, she thinks, but she’s buried under layers of pain, and Laura resolves that if she can’t strip those layers away as a wife, she’ll damn well do it as a friend. “Cheers, then, Auntie Nat,” she says, extending her glass.

 

Quiet humor flickers in Natasha’s eyes. “Cheers, Laura,” she says, and she clicks her glass gently against Laura’s.

 

**2015**

 

Natasha woke early, despite how poorly she’d slept the night before. Cool morning light filtered in through the window, casting the room into shades of grey and gold. She stretched out on the bed, arching her back and turning her head to look at the pillow beside her. It was as empty as it had been when she’d flopped back into bed after the nachos were gone and Clint had carried Lila’s spare sheets, clean and folded, back upstairs. Natasha sighed, pushing her hands through her hair.

 

“Okay,” she told herself. “Up.”

 

She rolled out of bed, pulling her hair back into a short ponytail and picking up the workout clothes she’d worn yesterday from where she’d folded them on the dresser, expecting to wear them again. It took a little longer to find a clean pair of socks, but she managed, pulling them on and heading downstairs on quiet feet.

 

Clint and Laura were at the kitchen table when she hit the landing, and Natasha blinked, surprised that they were up so early. “Hey,” she said. “You’re awake.”

 

“We’ve decided that since we’re never going to sleep again, we might as well just swear off it,” Clint said tiredly, his face hovering above a steaming cup of coffee.

 

“What he said,” Laura agreed, nursing a mug of her own. “At least Lila’s asleep now.”

 

“If Cooper gets this bug, he’s on his own,” Clint said. “Nine’s old enough to fend for himself, right? _Ow_ , Laura.”

 

Laura looked placidly at him, as if she hadn’t just kicked him under the table, and then looked at Natasha. “There’s more coffee, if you want it,” she said, a hint of reluctance in her tone.

 

Natasha snorted. “I’d be worried about Clint stabbing me if I tried to take some,” she said.

 

“I wouldn’t stab you that much,” Clint protested, not very convincingly. “Just a little bit. Probably. Depends on how big a mug you poured.”

 

“I think I’ll go for self-preservation for now,” she said dryly. “And anyway, I’m going for a run.”

 

“Sounds terrible,” Laura said, with the matter-of-fact surety of one who firmly believed that the only reason to run anywhere was if one was being chased by a bear.

 

Natasha wasn’t often chased by bears, but she _was_ often chased by people (and occasionally aliens and robots) with guns, and believed in staying prepared. “Probably,” she agreed. “But that’s life. I’ll be back in an hour or so.” She stopped to bend down and kiss Nate, who was soundly asleep in his carseat on the floor, and then picked up her sneakers and headed out the door.

 

She sat on the porch steps to tie her shoes, looking out at the farm. It was early enough that mist rolled lazily over the fields that surrounded the house, and she shivered a bit in the cool morning air. The sky was still grey, giving no sign as to what the day’s weather would hold once it cleared, and Natasha climbed to her feet and padded down the stairs.

 

As she stretched, she listened, closing her eyes and grounding herself in the exercise of identifying the sounds around her. A soft breeze brushed the grass, stirring a rustling of the blades, and the wind chimes on the porch sang quietly as they moved. Birdsong echoed the music of the chimes, farther away--in the trees, maybe, she thought, trying to zero in on the direction. Somewhere to the south, she could hear a hound baying, and recognized the voice of the old beagle at the next farm over, a fat, friendly dog with greying whiskers around its muzzle.

 

Despite herself, she smiled. Time rarely seemed to touch this land, other than the growing and harvesting of the crops as the seasons changed, but it could be measured, if nowhere else, in the girth and white hairs of an aging beagle.

 

Her muscles loosened and warm, Natasha tightened her ponytail and set out in a gently loping jog, down the driveway and toward the woods. She actually liked running, as long as no one was shooting at her. The repetitive motion calmed her in the same way that dancing and shooting did, so ingrained in her that she could slide into them without much thought or concentration. She lost herself in the steady sound of her feet on the ground, changing as she moved from gravel to grass to forest floor.

 

The previous night drifted quietly at the edges of her memory as she ran. Tired as she’d been, her sleep fitful and interrupted by Lila’s crying and the sound of Clint and Laura’s voices, footsteps up and down the stairs and the rustling of changing sheets, there had been something oddly warm and comforting about it. It reminded her of the old days, her and Clint and Laura bonding over Cooper’s latest illness, which seemed to come almost constantly when he’d started preschool. Clint’s exhausted humor had echoed her own, and the playful fighting on the couch had made her laugh in a way that she rarely did these days, as close as their friendship still was.

 

A touch of guilt curled around her at the memory of how quickly she’d jerked back when Wanda had interrupted them, and she found herself wondering why she’d recoiled so automatically. It wasn’t as if Wanda didn’t know that she and Clint were close, and even though Wanda had clearly taken an immediate liking to Laura, they hadn’t been doing anything inappropriate that would have made her feel obligated to report it.

 

No, she thought, dipping under a large tree branch that crossed the path she ran along, it was her own insecurity and protectiveness that had made her flinch back, the same insecurity that kept her sleeping in the guest room and not in Clint and Laura’s bed, as comfortable as she’d felt there. The strange relationship the three of them shared was something she felt the need to protect and keep secret--not out of any sense of shame or embarrassment, she knew, but out of fear, the same fear that had made her leave in the first place.

 

The more people who knew, the more people who could use it against her.

 

It was a foolish distinction to make, she thought. Even if she didn’t share their bed, she was as attached to them as she ever had been, her feelings as strong as ever even if she was too tied up in her own history to call them _love_.

 

Natasha exhaled, not quite a sigh, but close enough that she needed to readjust her breathing to compensate and keep her heart rate even. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Wanda, or thought that Wanda herself would use the information against her. But Wanda was young and powerful and volatile, and Natasha had seen firsthand how her powers could be used to take a person apart. If someone managed to get control of her and turn her against the team, it wouldn’t take long for that same someone to find Clint and Laura and the kids in Natasha’s mind and heart.

 

Loki had very nearly done it to Clint, and only Clint giving up Natasha had kept him from finding the farm, and he’d fought tooth and nail to keep Laura and the kids locked away from the god’s prying fingers. Wanda’s powers hadn’t even offered the opportunity to fight back.

 

It was part of the reason Natasha had taken Wanda under her wing, had invested so much time and energy in building Wanda up after Pietro’s death, teaching the younger woman to trust herself and her instincts. As much as she wanted to believe that it was out of a desire to train the new Avengers team, there was a selfish part of her that wanted to know exactly what Wanda was capable of.

 

If she knew what she could do, she would know how to beat her. The practical, vicious side of her, the side that had been raised from childhood into a cold-blooded killer, needed to know that in order to feel safe.

 

There was no safety in uncertainty.

 

The path ahead of her opened up into the large clearing in the woods where Clint had landed the quinjet, and Natasha slowed her pace to a walk, her breathing even and calm as she came out of the trees. The jet was sleek and glistening with dew, the Wakandan metal gleaming as the first rays of morning sun peeking through the clouds reflected off the surface. She moved up to it, resting a hand against the damp, cool metal and using it to steady herself as she stretched.

 

She wondered, not for the first time in the past few days, if it wouldn’t just be easier to tell Wanda that their time off was over, to pack the younger woman into the jet and fly her back to New York. She wasn’t as skilled a pilot as Clint--in her opinion, few people were--but she could handle a quinjet, and leaving the farm would mean no more struggling over where to sleep, no more wrenching in her heart as she watched Cooper and Lila play, no more being torn between losing herself in the comfort of the space or constantly reminding herself that the comfort was temporary.

 

But Wanda wasn’t really ready to leave yet, Natasha knew. She was looking better and better by the day, the circles that had been under her eyes for as long as Natasha had known her finally beginning to fade as the days of laughter and sunshine began to sink into her skin, but it would take more than a few days of home-cooked food and country air to really heal the pain of Pietro’s loss and Ultron’s manipulation. Natasha sighed, tugging the elastic from her hair and smoothing back the damp curls that had pulled as she’d run, retying it more securely. She could leave on her own, she supposed--it would mean a commercial flight, but then, that was how she’d gotten here in the first place. And she’d had worse travel accommodations.

 

As quickly as the thought had come, though, she wanted to reject it, and knew without even checking her thought process that that should have told her how much she really _should_ leave. She ran her fingertips over the smooth planes of the quinjet, wondering what it would take for her to convince Wanda to set a date for when she might be ready to leave. At least then she could have an excuse…

 

Her phone vibrated in the pocket of her sweatshirt and she jumped, startled by the buzzing sensation against her belly. Shaking her head at her own surprise, she slipped a hand into her pocket, swiping her finger across the touchscreen to open the picture Clint had sent.

 

It was a selfie, clearly taken in the kitchen, of Clint’s pouting face next to a pancake. The pancake was decorated with a sad face made out of banana slice eyes, a strawberry nose, and a frowning mouth of chocolate chips. _Mr Pancake misses you_ , the accompanying text said. _Also Wanda and Laura are talking about conditioner and I may kill myself. COME BACK_.

 

Despite herself, she laughed, not bothering to quiet herself in the empty clearing. Trust Clint, she thought, shaking her head and startled tears of mirth out of her eyes, to know when she needed to smile, even when he wasn’t there to see it.

 

She patted the quinjet once more, as if to tell it to wait a few more days, and then pocketed her phone and turned, setting off at a gentle jog toward home.

 

**2010**

 

The mission doesn’t go completely to shit, which Clint is pretty sure is more due to luck than any skillful handling of bad intel and weapons malfunctions on his or Natasha’s part. Clint rigs a bomb out of a cigarette, molasses, and farm store fertilizer that fortunately doesn’t destabilize and blow them up while they’re smuggling it into the terrorist cell, while Natasha slides her way inside and only manages to keep herself from being seen by the one guy in the room who could have recognized her by stealing a spare hijab and sunglasses out of a coat-check room.

 

Needless to say, they’re mutually pissed and bleeding when the SHIELD medevac chopper picks them out of Bumfuck, Syria, and don’t exchange more than a few words while the medics patch up the worst of their wounds. A SHIELD jet meets them in Damascus--“Does the airport know we’re stealing this runway?” Clint asks Coulson as he limps aboard. “No comment,” Coulson says placidly--and shoots them across the Atlantic, back to DC.

 

By the time they land in DC, Clint’s stitches have mostly stopped stinging, and subtly turning down his hearing aids spared him the worst of Coulson’s “we don’t make dirty bombs, Barton” lecture, which he’s definitely heard at least four times before and wouldn’t have to keep hearing if SHIELD would give him grenades on missions where something has to get blown up. Natasha, who immediately noticed what he was doing, had just rolled her eyes and gone sleep, so Clint counts that as a win and is a little less pissed at her for letting the terrorist hit squad take off with the duffle that had all their spare weapons, including Clint’s spare bowstrings.

 

Maybe not entirely _not_ pissed, but at least less.

 

Coulson tells them in no uncertain terms that they’re both benched until their stitches come out, and that they’re due for a debrief in twelve hours. “I’d tell you to go to Medical,” he says dryly, “but I doubt you will.”

 

“For this little scratch, Phil?” Clint says, batting his eyelashes, gesturing to the left leg of his jeans, which conceal the bulk of heavy gauze bandaging. “Come on, don’t be ridiculous.”

 

Coulson sighs. “Natasha?” She arches one eyebrow, and he looks up at the ceiling. “I used to have hair,” he tells it, and then shakes his head. “Fine. Don’t leave the city, you won’t get back in time for your debrief.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Clint says. “It’s the third Thursday of the month, I’ve got my coffee date.”

 

“Ah,” Coulson says. “My mistake. Give her my best.”

 

Clint salutes, and Coulson rolls his eyes, heading off toward Fury’s office, probably to give an initial report and enough of a heads up to avoid any major international incidents.

 

“Clint,” Natasha says, frowning after Coulson. “What do you mean, you have a coffee date?”

 

“Just what it sounds like,” he says, shrugging. He’s still bristling at her from the shitshow of a mission, and knows she’s just as annoyed at him. In the old days, they’d lock themselves in a hotel room with a bottle of good vodka for a day or so until the irritability was out of their systems, but since angry-sex-to-makeup-sex isn’t an option anymore, Clint figures they’ll just have to be pissed with each other for a few days. “I’ll see you at debrief.”

 

“Right,” she says, a small furrow appearing in her brow. “Don’t forget to take your antibiotics.”

 

He waves over his shoulder in acknowledgement, wincing as the road rash on his back pulls with the motion, and makes his way down to the mess. He picks up two coffees and snags a plateful of pastries from the dessert bar, then grabs the next elevator up to the admin floor.

 

It’s late--or early, he supposes--enough that no one’s really there, and the floor is mostly dark, only the safety lights and a few offices illuminated. Still, the one desk he expects to find still lit is, and he beelines toward it, setting the coffees down. “Hey, May.”

 

His former partner, now retired from active field duty, looks up from her computer monitor, her ponytail swinging as she moves. “Barton,” she greets him, gesturing for him to pull up a chair. She glances at her watch. “You’re late.”

 

“Mission went to hell,” Clint says, stealing a swivel chair from the next desk over and plopping into it, pushing one coffee toward May. “Had to do a bunch of improvising.”

 

May’s eyes flash. “Another MacGuyver bomb?” He grins but says nothing, and she laughs. “Did Coulson change his lecture at all?”

 

“Nah, same one. At least, I think so. I turned my ears down for most of it.” He takes a sip from the other coffee and gesture with his free hand to the scattered papers on her desk. “How’s reading all our mission reports?”

 

“Like you write your own mission reports,” she retorts, leaning back in her chair.

 

“I do so write them,” Clint protests, in a voice he knows immediately is way too petulant for a guy pushing forty. “Nat makes me.”

 

“Good for her,” May says approvingly. “Tell her to help you work on your chicken scratch handwriting while she’s at it.”

 

“Hey, that’s not my fault. You drop out of school in fifth grade and see how good your penmanship is.” Clint picks up a cookie and pops it into his mouth. It’s chocolate macadamia nut; not bad, but nothing like Laura’s. “So,” he says, swallowing hard. “Kind of figured you’d want to be home by now. Pretty late for you to still be here, even if you were meeting my sorry ass. Won’t your husband be worried you’re off having an affair?”

 

May’s face goes immediately blank, and Clint straightens in his chair. They’re not partners anymore, but he spent enough time learning her features and tells to know that total shutdown means something’s up. “Hey,” he says, more gently now. “What’s going on, Melinda?”

 

She looks down at the plastic lid of her coffee cup, as if contemplating the steam coming trickling out of it, and runs one finger over the condensation. “Andrew and I are separating,” she says quietly.

 

Clint drops the rest of his cookie back down on the plate. “Shit,” he says, emphatically, if probably unhelpfully. “I’m sorry, May. That sucks.”

 

May shrugs one shoulder, as if to shake it off, but her eyes are sad, and a little bit angry. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” she says flatly. “After what I did in Bahrain, I can’t blame him for--”

 

“Bullshit,” Clint interrupts. The details of the shit show that was the Bahrain mission aren’t common knowledge at SHIELD, even though May had come back with a commendation and a new nickname, but she’d started withdrawing almost at once, her eyes constantly guilty. When she’d resigned from fieldwork altogether, Clint had cornered Coulson in his office and pried the story out of him with the meticulous use of a fifth of whiskey. “You saved the lives of every agent on your team, Melinda.”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “I had to--”

 

“I know what you had to do, May,” he says, looking at her steadily until she drags her gaze up to his, looking at him with dark, angry eyes. “That little girl would have killed a lot of people--already had killed a lot of people. She was lost before you ever put a bullet in her, and I know it sucks, but don’t lose your marriage over it. I get that you feel like shit, I know, I’ve been there, but it’s supposed to be that whole better or worse thing. You don’t just cut out.”

 

May snorts out a short, bitter laugh. “No offense, Barton,” she says, “but what exactly do you know about marriage?”

 

Clint opens his mouth to make a comment about seeing it from time to time on television, but stops. May’s looking at him the way Nat had after London, like she’s hopeful for trust and reassurance but doesn’t think she deserves it. He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. Sliding open the hidden pocket in the cash fold, he pulls out a folded photograph and silently hands it across the desk to her.

 

She takes it from him with a raised eyebrow, unfolding it. Her eyes widen, a soft sound of surprise leaving her lips.

 

Clint knows exactly what she’s seeing. It’s a recent picture, taken on the beach during a much-needed family vacation to Florida. Laura’s in a black bathing suit, her hair windswept and touched with sand under her broad-brimmed hat, holding a happily grinning Lila on her lap. Cooper, just turned four, hugs Laura from behind, his cheeks sunburned and his smile bright. Clint watches May’s eyes look from face to face to face before turning her confused eyes to his. “Barton,” she says slowly, disbelieving. “Who is this?”

 

He swallows. “That’s Laura,” he says, pushing down the anxiety of willingly revealing Laura’s existence to someone in SHIELD. “My wife.”

 

May’s lips part. Her expression is carefully blank, but Clint suspects it would look like shock on anyone with less control over their features. “You’re married?”

 

“Six years in June,” he says, and can’t quite believe it even as he says it. He feels like he’s been married for ever.

 

It’s a good feeling.

 

May traces a finger over the edge of the picture. “And the kids?”

 

“Cooper and Lila.” He can’t help a smile, but that’s alright. He’s never denied being a sappy disaster over his kids. “Lila’s just about six months old, and Cooper turned four back in March.”

 

She stares at him. “You never told me.”

 

The softness of her voice takes some of the sting from the accusation. Clint shrugs. “When I joined SHIELD, Coulson basically gave me the option of working for him or getting a bullet to the head. Didn’t exactly build trust. And then it was just easier to keep it hidden. It seemed safer.”

 

As apologies go, it’s pretty shitty, but her lips twitch upwards. He can’t quite tell if it’s understanding or amusement. “Who else knows?”

 

“Fury,” he says. “And Phil. Only because they turned up at my house out of the blue to harass me with their super aggressive recruitment routine.”

 

Another twitch of her lips. Definitely amusement, he thinks, watching her shoulders relax a fraction of an inch. “I heard you negotiated pretty well anyway.”

 

Clint grins. “Apparently I almost screwed myself out of a 401(k) since I didn’t know what it was, but HR set me straight when I sat down to pretty much sign my life away. But I got them to wipe my wife’s old family farm off the grid and set up fake accounts to keep it from getting linked back to me.” He turns his coffee cup in his hands, more to give himself something to do than anything else. “I am sorry I didn’t tell you,” he says quietly. “You were my partner, and I shouldn’t have kept secrets from you. I just--” He sighs. “Protecting them came first.”

 

May shakes her head, her expression softer now. “We all have our secrets, Clint,” she says quietly. She glances back down at the picture, her gaze settling on Lila, held comfortably and contentedly in Clint’s arms. “We were going to try to start a family,” she says after a long silence, her voice low. “We wanted kids, we both did. But then Bahrain happened, Katya happened, and I couldn’t…” She swallows visibly. “Motherhood stopped being a reality I saw for myself the moment I pulled that trigger, and Andrew couldn’t understand that. He kept waiting for me to go back to the person I was before I walked into that room, and I’m just...not. I can’t be.”

 

Clint looks steadily at her, trying to figure out what to say. He figures that “well, fuck him, should I shoot him for you?” isn’t what May wants to hear--mostly because she’s a grown woman, and she can shoot people herself if she wants them shot--so he goes with the next thing that comes to mind, which fortunately happens to be true. “You’re still you, Melinda,” he says. “You went through a bunch of shit and you’re still healing and trying to find your feet, but you’re still you.” He grins wryly at her. “Even if you did sell out to management with this whole admin thing. Way to sell the union down the creek, asshole.”

 

May actually laughs at that--not her usual dry chuckle, but a real laugh, full and genuine. “I do miss you, Barton,” she says fondly. She holds out the picture to him, smiling as he takes it. “You have a beautiful family,” she says, and then grins, a little wicked. “And it explains why you flirted so much but never closed a deal.”

 

“Yeah, well.” He rubs the back of his head, giving her a sheepish smile. “That was my wife’s idea. Said it would throw people off.” It’s mostly true; Nat was still a part of their marriage when she’d said it.

 

“Smart woman,” May says, amused. “I suppose I should take my money out of that pool over you and Romanoff. Doesn’t seem fair to bet when you have an inside source.” She pauses, her coffee cup halfway to her lips. “You’re _not_ sleeping with her, right? I’d hate to find out you’re married and then have to kick your ass for cheating on your wife.”

 

Clint snorts. “No, I’m not sleeping with her.” He thinks about the tension between himself and Natasha on the plane back to the US, and sighs. “Sometimes I think it’d be easier if I was, though. Dealing with arguments is way simpler when you can just fuck through them. Talking through team dynamics like adults sucks.”

 

May snickers into her coffee. “You always managed okay with me.”

 

“Yeah, but you terrified me.”

 

She raises her eyebrows. “If the rumors are true, Romanoff has stabbed you. Twice.”

 

“Well, yeah,” Clint admits, picking up the rest of his abandoned cookie. “But I deserved one of them.” Something strikes him then, and he pauses. “Hey,” he says. “You said you’re taking yourself _out_ of the betting pool about me and Nat? Which side were you on?”

 

May grins at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

 

Clint laughs, holding out his coffee cup. “I’ll get you someday, May.”

 

She taps her paper cup against his. “You’ll certainly keep trying, Barton,” she agrees, smiling, and Clint grins, spotting the old spark, so rarely seen these days, glint into her eyes.

 

It might take awhile, Clint thinks, settling back into his seat and relaxing in his old partner’s presence, it might even take years, but May would be okay.

 

And if she could be okay, maybe Nat would be, too.

 

**2015**

 

The warm smell of simmering tomatoes, garlic, and onions filled the kitchen, drifting out from the large pot bubbling on the stove. Laura hummed softly to herself as she wiped down the counter, enjoying the relative peace and quiet in the house. Clint had taken Nate, Cooper, and Natasha to the grocery store, picking up the short list of food and house supplies they couldn’t get from their own gardens or the local farmer’s market. Lila was asleep upstairs, and Wanda was in the study, on a video call with Captain America.

 

Laura shook her head in vague amusement as she tossed the damp rag into the sink and then drummed her fingers thoughtfully on the counter. Clint being a SHIELD agent and an Avenger was one thing; Captain America regularly calling her house and telling her to call him “Steve” was something else. Even having the whole Avenger team in her living room hadn’t really made it click for her, though she figured that was because she’d been caught completely off-guard, and then was swept up in her worry for Clint and Tasha and how the hell she was going to feed and house all these people.

 

Strange world, she mused, glancing toward the study door. And getting stranger every day.

 

Her phone buzzed on the table, and she dried her hands on a towel, slipping around the counter. The caller ID displayed her mother’s name, and she picked up, heading back into the kitchen. “Hi, Mom.”

 

“Hey, Lola baby.” Her mother’s fond voice came crisp and clear through the phone speakers, and Laura smiled. Free StarkTech was definitely a perk of having an Avengers husband.

 

“What’s up?” Laura flipped open her recipe box, deciding she wanted something sweet.

 

“Nothing’s up, I just thought I’d give my favorite daughter a call.”

 

Laura chuckled. “I’m your only daughter,” she said, pulling out the chocolate chip cookie recipe. A classic, but a good one.

 

“That’s why you’re my favorite.” She could hear her mother puttering around, probably in her own kitchen. “How’s life in farmland? How’s my newest grandchild?”

 

“Your newest grandchild is lovely,” Laura said, smiling. “He’s been a bit fussy at night, but nowhere near as bad as Cooper was.” She took down a mixing bowl, and started cubing butter from the sun-warmed dish. “Lila’s got a bit of a stomach bug that she probably picked up from one of the billions of birthday parties she goes to.”

 

Her mother made a soft, sympathetic clicking sound with her tongue. “Poor thing.”

 

Laura snorted. “Poor us, too. Clint was up half the night doing laundry, and I don’t think Natasha slept more than a few hours.”

 

The other line went very quiet, and Laura paused, cradling her phone between her ear and shoulder. Of everyone in her family, only Michael had known the real truth of Natasha’s part of their family, and even that was only because he had quite literally walked in on a three-way makeout session in the living room of the farm. She cringed at the memory. Still, her mother wasn’t an idiot--the woman had been a teacher for twenty years and a principal for twenty-five; she knew more about spotting hidden relationships than any SHIELD agent. “Natasha’s with you?” her mother said finally, her tone impossible to interpret.

 

“She’s visiting,” Laura said carefully. “She and one of the new Avengers, Wanda.”

 

“I see.” Another long pause, during which Laura put away the butter and began measuring brown sugar into her mixing bowl. “Lola,” her mother said finally. “You’re a grown woman, and quite a smart one, and I trust you to make your own decisions without your mother butting in.”

 

“I’m sensing a ‘but’,” Laura said dryly.

 

“Well, it’s just--with everything going on with the news right now, are you sure now’s the best time to have a house full of Avengers?”

 

If only you knew, Laura thought with a wry smile, putting away the brown sugar and picking up the white. “Since when are you anti-Avenger, mom?”

 

“I’m not,” her mother said, sounding almost offended. “But after what happened to those poor people in Sokovia a few months ago, there have been all these protests about whether the Avengers are operating with too much power and not enough oversight. I’m just worried about you getting mixed up in something, that’s all.”

 

“I’m already mixed up in it, Mom,” Laura said with a sigh, picking up a whisk. “Besides, if some crazy person decided to go anti-Avengers on us--and I’m not saying they would, you know the people in this town are wonderful--wouldn’t you rather that happened while I have a house full of people who can protect me?”

 

Her mother was silent for a moment, and then, when she spoke again, her voice was tinged with exasperated fondness. “You know, Laura, there’s such a thing as being too smart for your own good.”

 

Laura grinned. “I learned from the best,” she said, and her mother chuckled.

 

The study door opened, and Laura glanced up as Wanda stepped out of the room. “Listen, Mom, I’ve got to go. I’m baking and I need both hands. I’ll have Coop give you a call tonight to send some love, okay?”

 

“You’d better,” her mother said. “Give the baby a kiss for me, and give my love Clint. And--” She faltered, and then pressed on. “And give my best to Natasha.”

 

Laura raised her eyebrows, glad her mother wasn’t there to see it. “I will,” she said. “Love you, Mom.”

 

“Love you too, baby.”

 

The line disconnected, and Laura put her phone down on the counter as Wanda came quietly into the kitchen. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Did I interrupt?”

 

“No, honey, you’re fine.” Laura finished creaming the butter and sugar together and glanced over her shoulder. “Can you hand me a pair of eggs, please?”

 

Wanda reached into the basket of eggs on the counter, picking up two of them and bringing them back to Laura. “What are you making?” she asked curiously, peering into the bowl.

 

“Just a batch of cookies.” She cracked the two eggs into a bowl and continued her mixing. “I had a craving.” She frowned, trying to remember which wet ingredient she was missing, and then snapped her fingers. “Vanilla,” she said, in response to Wanda’s startled glance, and lay her whisk down, reaching up into the cabinet to get down the small bottle of vanilla extract. She dashed some in without looking--she’d made this recipe enough times over the years that she rarely measured most of the ingredients--and picked up her whisk again. “How was your call with Steve?”

 

“It was all right.” Wanda leaned her elbows on the counter beside Laura, watching her stir with soft eyes. “I think that he is very good at commanding soldiers, but he is not quite sure how to talk to…” She trailed off, and then shook her head. “Actually, maybe that isn’t true. I was going to say he doesn’t know how to talk to people who are vulnerable, but I think that isn’t quite right. I think it’s that he doesn’t like to be reminded that his team is vulnerable. It reminds him that he is vulnerable, too.”

 

Laura hummed thoughtfully, tapping the whisk against the bowl to clean it and then pulling the flour container closer to her. “I only met him once, so I can’t speak much for myself,” she said, taking off the lid and picking up her measuring cup. “But I asked Clint once, and he said that he thinks that Steve knows plenty about being vulnerable--he spent his whole life being vulnerable, just one illness away from death. When he became Captain America, no one expected him to be anything but a figurehead, but he took the responsibility of being a leader on himself. And he suffered for it.”

 

She had learned about Captain America at school, fascinated by the footnotes about him in her history textbook, but it was only in the last few years that she’d begun reading in earnest. “He made himself a leader,” she repeated, measuring in baking soda and salt. “And he saved lives, yes, but he lost some, too. And from what Clint’s told me, he felt each loss like it was his own heart breaking.”

 

Wanda’s lips thinned slightly, guilt and shame flickering in his eyes. “I saw--” she swallowed visibly. “When I looked inside him, I saw loss. There was a man, falling, and a woman--a woman asking him to dance.” She looked up at Laura, her eyes bright and shimmering at the corners. “There was so much loneliness,” she said softly. “Loneliness and pain and guilt. All I did was brush against it, and it still almost overwhelmed me.”

 

Laura felt herself soften at the vulnerable worry in Wanda’s voice. She put down her spoon, reaching out to close a hand over Wanda’s. “The past is in the past, Wanda,” she said quietly. “You did what you did, and you saw what you saw, and you can’t undo that. All you can do is move forward, and use what you learned to make you better.” She squeezed Wanda’s hand, and then released her. “I don’t know Steve very well,” she said, picking up her spoon again, “but I do know Clint, and I think they’re more similar than either of them would like to admit. Him not knowing how to talk to you probably has nothing to do with you being vulnerable, and everything to do with him feeling guilty about pushing you too hard and not knowing how to say that without you telling him he’s being an idiot.”

 

Wanda looked stricken. “I would never tell him that,” she protested.

 

Laura smiled. “Maybe you should try,” she suggested. “I find that when men get themselves into a hole of self-pity that they start projecting onto everyone around them, it helps to put them back in their place. Hand me that bag of chocolate chips.”

 

Obediently, Wanda reached into the cabinet and passed the plastic bag over. Laura opened it and poured in a generous portion, thought about it, and then added more. “You really think he feels guilty?”

 

“I think that he takes his training of his team very seriously,” Laura said, mixing the chocolate chips into the cookie dough. “And I think that, in his training of you, you became overwhelmed and used your powers, and there was collateral damage. I think that Steve Rogers is the kind of leader who takes responsibility for the well-being of the people he commands, and if you were overwhelmed on his watch, that means he screwed up.” She bent down and opened the oven drawer, sliding out a pair of cookie sheets. She lined them with foil in easy motions, and then took out two spoons, using one to scoop out a portion of the dough and rolling it into a ball between her palms. “Does that mean he actually _did_ screw up and push you too hard? I don’t know. But that’s likely how he feels about it.”

 

Wanda frowned. “But that is stupid.”

 

“You won’t get any argument from me,” Laura agreed, and gestured to the other spoon. “Come on, if you’re in the kitchen, you’re helping. Generous spoonfuls, roll them like this, then right down on the foil.”

 

Working together, they filled the two cookie sheets, Wanda moving a little clumsily at first, her motions becoming smoother as she became more familiar. Laura watched her out of the corner of her eye, carefully keeping herself from smiling at the soft warmth that filled her as the tension released, bit by bit, from Wanda’s shoulders.

 

As they started scooping the end of the dough from the bowl, Wanda spoke again. “Sometimes I worry that I am not ready to be on the team,” she said, her voice small.

 

Laura raised her eyebrows. “What makes you say that?”

 

“My only strength is my powers,” Wanda said, not looking up from the dough she was rolling between her hands. “Everyone else, they have experience, tactical knowledge, combat training. Me, all I have is...is what Hydra gave me.” Her lips thinned, her brow furrowing deeply before it smoothed again. She shook her head. “Sometimes I think the only reason I am there is because I am too dangerous to be anywhere else.”

 

“That’s not what I think,” Laura said. She scooped out another spoonful of dough, estimating there might be three or four cookies’ worth left. “I think that may have been part of it, because you’re right, Wanda--your powers are dangerous. But I’ve only known you a few days, and I’ve seen more than just a Hydra experiment with good hair.” Wanda’s lips twitched upward at that, and Laura smiled, pressing gently on. “I see a girl who’s borne great pain and still shows compassion to growing things and finds wonder in children. I see someone who loved her family and connects, even after years away, with the traditions that her ancestors loved. I see someone who acknowledges her mistakes and takes steps, every day, to move past them, to do better.”

 

She dropped a cookie onto the baking sheet, turning to Wanda. “I’ve seen you show more kindness and care in the days you’ve been in my house than I see some people without half your experiences show in a lifetime, Wanda. You’ve chosen to fight against injustice in the world. That’s what makes you an Avenger, not your powers.”

 

Wanda stared at her, her mouth open slightly, a small ball of dough still held in her hands. She swallowed, putting the dough down, and then gave a sniffle, wiping at her eyes briefly. Laura held her breath, ready to offer a hug, but Wanda just gave her a small, watery smile. “Do you and Clint practice those speeches?” she asked, a slight sparkle in her wet eyes. “They really work very well.”

 

Laura smiled. “Clint and I have children, Wanda,” she said matter-of-factly, pointedly ignoring Wanda’s tears as she slid the two pans into the preheated oven. “We’re well used to encouraging brilliant young people who need a little push to believe in themselves.”

 

She closed the oven, and straightened to find Wanda peering into the bowl. “There’s still a bit of dough,” Wanda said hesitantly. “We could still put it on the sheets.”

 

“On the sheets? Don’t be ridiculous.” Laura grinned, holding up her spoon. “That’s what these are for. Treat for a job well done.”

 

Wanda blinked. “I thought that was bad for you,” she said slowly.

 

Laura picked up Wanda’s abandoned spoon and held it out to her. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” she said, waggling her eyebrows.

 

Wanda hesitated, and then, slowly, like the sun breaking through stormclouds, she smiled.

 

**2010**

 

“I’m going to kill you,” Natasha says flatly, standing in front of the mirror in the guest room she’s commandeered for herself for the night. She smoothes down the front of the leopard-print dress that clings to her like a second skin, and glares at her reflection. “I look like a discount hooker.”

 

Fury snorts in her ear. “You couldn’t look like a discount hooker if you tried, Romanoff,” he says. “Your posture’s too good.”

 

“I’ll take that as a compliment. But I’m still not wearing this.” She pulls the dress over her head and tosses it onto the bed, flipping through the garment bag and pulling out a much classier grey pencil dress with an asymmetrical collar. Slipping into it and zipping it up her back, she turns back to the mirror and nods in satisfaction. “Much better.

 

“You’re supposed to be enticing him,” Fury reminds her over their comm. “You want him to show his true personality so you can assess his aptitude for being in the field with the Avengers initiative.”

 

“I know my assignment,” Natasha retorts, examining her eye makeup. “Reputation aside, the women he genuinely pursues are all competent, classy, and attractive, because he’s trying to get as close to Pepper Potts as his crippling insecurity will let him.”

 

Fury chuckles. “This is why we pay you the big bucks, Romanoff.”

 

Natasha smiles slyly at her reflection. “Is this a good time for me to bring up a raise, sir?” she asks sweetly.

 

“We’ll talk about it at your performance review,” he says dryly, but she hears the fond amusement in his voice. “Have fun at the birthday party. Drink responsibly.”

 

She rolls her eyes, but can’t help a slight smile. Fury had spent her probationary period watching her with a sharp eye, but once she’d proven that she wasn’t planning to go on a rampage and slaughter half of SHIELD, he’d surprised her by taking her under his wing--handling her on the occasional missions she took without Clint, helping her find an apartment in DC, taking her out for dinner when they both had a free evening.

 

It had been...strange. Her Red Room and KGB handlers had never bothered treating her with kindness; pain was the strongest motivator they used, and they used it well.

 

“Fury’s not like that,” Clint had told her, when she’d called him and spent twenty minutes ranting through her irritated confusion about SHIELD’s director’s apparent adoption of her. “He’s an asshole, but he’s a good man.”

 

“That doesn’t even make sense,” she’d snapped.

 

She understands better now. Fury treats her like the competent spy she is, but he never forgets that she’s a person. He’ll send her into a death trap of a mission without an extraction plan, but not without triple-checking her ammo and guns, reminding her where her garrotes are, and asking if she’s sure she doesn’t want a full automatic to go with her semis.

 

She’s never had a father, but she thinks that if she had, she might have liked someone like Fury.

 

With a last look at her reflection, she flips her hair back and makes her way down the hall towards Stark’s master suite. She stops off in one of the larger closets to pick up a box of custom watches, and then squares her shoulders, walking on swift, high-heeled steps to the bedroom. “Do you know which watch you’d like to wear tonight, Mister Stark?”

 

He’s facing away from her, looking into the mirror as he buttons his shirt. She keeps her face blank, setting the box down on the bar. “I’ll give ‘em a look,” he says. Natasha smiles, picking up the shaker to start mixing a martini--dirty, the ways she’s learned he likes them. “I should cancel the party, huh?”

 

She pours the martini into a glass and turns back toward him, finding him looking at her. The deep red of his shirt suits him, she thinks. “Probably.”

 

Stark moves toward her, the arc reactor pulsing blue-white where his shirt still hangs open on his chest. “Cause it’s, uh…”

 

“Ill-timed,” she supplies.

 

“Right. Sends the wrong message.” His face is blank as he approaches her.

 

Natasha allows him to step into her space, keeps her body language cool and relaxed. “Inappropriate,” she agrees. She offers him the glass with a small smile, and he takes it from her, lifting it in a tiny, almost mocking salute before taking a sip, his eyes never leaving hers. She can see what it is about him that makes women fall on their knees for him--even being slowly poisoned by the reactor keeping him alive, he radiates charisma. He lowers the glass, swallowing, and she watches his throat work before flickering her eyes up to his, pitching her voice low and just a touch husky, watching for his reaction. “Is that dirty enough for you?”

 

It’s a cheesy line and she almost wants to kick herself for it, but it seems to take him a bit off-guard despite its clunkiness. He falters for a moment, and then starts to turn away. “Uh, gold face, brown band. The Jager. I’ll give that a look.”

 

She smiles, turning away and moving back to the bar, picking up the box she’d left there and carrying it back to him where he’s taken a seat in one of the black leather chairs. “I’ll take that,” he says, taking the box from her. “Why don’t you--”

 

Before he can tell her what he wants her to do, she slides down to perch on the arm of the chair, cocking one eyebrow and tossing her hair over her shoulder. He watches her as she opens the concealer pallette she’d palmed while picking up the box, dabbing some of it onto her finger and setting to work on the scrapes on his face. “You know,” he says, “I’ve got to say it. It’s hard to get a read on you. Where are you from?”

 

“Legal,” she says, light and innocent, not looking up from her task.

 

He swallows again, his lips moving into an expression that’s nearly a grimace. He’s silent for a few beats before he speaks again. “Can I ask you a question? Hypothetically?” She snaps the concealer closed and sits back, arching a brow and waiting patiently. “A bit odd. If this was your last--” He rubs his eyes, and she finds herself wondering, suddenly, if it’s physical pain or emotional that makes him do it. “--birthday party you were ever gonna have, how would you celebrate it?”

 

Stark looks up at her then, his eyes questioning, his smile not reaching them, and Natasha takes a moment to think, genuinely taken aback by the question. She’d been expecting a proposition, a dirty joke, but not this. Not this acceptance of mortality.

 

And she wonders, too, what she _would_ do, if she knew her time was running out. Would she vanish into the wind, try to outrun the clock, fight for a change in fate?

 

No, she thinks, knowing it’s true even as the thought comes to her. No, she wouldn’t. She’d say _fuck it_ to all the fears and worries and insecurities, and she’d go home. She’d scoop Cooper, getting bigger every day while she’s not there to see it, into her arms and never let go of him. She’d hold baby Lila and sing her the Russian lullabies she’d crooned to Cooper in his infancy. She’d crawl into bed with Clint and Laura and stay there until death took her.

 

She smiles at Tony Stark, the first genuine smile she’s given him all night, and answers with the truth. “I’d do whatever I wanted to do,” she says. “With whoever I wanted to do it with.”

 

Stark smiles back, the emotion actually flickering up to his eyes, and Natasha walks away, the box of watches in her hands, leaving him to his drink to bring the box back to the closet.

 

Letting the door of the walk-in close gently behind her, she sets the box back on its designated shelf and sighs, tilting her head back against the door. She slips her hand into the clutch she’d left in the closet earlier, taking out her phone and scrolling through the contacts, her finger lingering over _Lola_ and chewing her bottom lip.

 

“Come on, Romanoff,” she mutters. “You can make a damn phone call.” Besides, she thinks, clicking the contact and listening to the phone ring, it’s eight o’clock in Malibu, which means it’s ten in Iowa--they’ve probably already gone to bed.

 

The phone rings, and rings, and rings, and--

 

“Tasha?”

 

Laura’s voice, soft and sweet and tinged with sleepy slowness, comes through the phone, and Natasha swallows down the lump in her throat. “Hey,” Natasha whispers. “Did I wake you?”

 

“No, we’re up with Lila.”

 

There’s a soft rustling, and Clint’s voice mumbles, “Who’s’at?”

 

“It’s Natasha,” Laura says. There’s soft murmuring that Natasha can’t make out, and then Laura says, “Tasha, I’m putting you on speaker, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Natasha says, cradling the phone in both hands and sinking down to sit on the floor of the closet, drawing her knees up and resting the heels of her Louboutins on the floor.

 

A soft click, and then, “Okay, Nat, we’re both here. What’s up?”

 

“You still in Malibu?” Clint asks, his voice sounding a bit farther away than Laura’s. “Babysitting a billionaire?”

 

The laugh escapes her before she can stop it. “He’s simultaneously depressingly endearing and completely obnoxious,” she says. “I’m genuinely amazed that I haven’t murdered him.”

 

“I’m not,” Laura says. “Think of how many years you put up with Clint without murdering him.”

 

“Not for lack of trying,” Clint mutters, and Natasha smiles. “I know you’re grinning over there, Nat, don’t think I’ve forgotten you shot me.”

 

“I stabbed you, too,” she says, fondly.

 

“I remember,” Clint says.

 

“Enough, you two,” Laura chides gently, the smile audible in her voice. “What is it, Natasha? Is everything okay?”

 

“Everything’s fine,” Natasha says. “I just…” She thinks of Stark’s face, the look in his eyes, _if this was the last birthday party you were ever gonna have_ , and swallows. “I just wanted to talk to you. To hear your voices.”

 

There’s a moment of quiet on the phone, and when Laura speaks again, her voice is damp at the edges. “We miss you, Tasha,” she says softly. “We both miss you. So much.”

 

“I miss you, too.” She tightens her hands around the phone and closes her eyes, taking a shaking breath. “I shouldn’t have called,” she says. “I don’t really have any time, I just…”

 

“You don’t need to have a reason to call us,” Laura says quietly.

 

Natasha chews her bottom lip. “Clint?”

 

“Yeah, Nat.”

 

“I’m sorry I shot you,” she says.

 

He laughs softly. “I forgive you,” he says. “What, no apology for stabbing me?”

 

Natasha thinks about that. “Only the second time,” she says. “You deserved the first one.”

 

He laughs, warm and low in her ear. “Fair,” he says. “Have fun with the billionaires, Nat.”

 

“I’ll try,” she says, making a face even though she knows they can’t see it.

 

“Don’t kill anyone, Tasha,” Laura says, and Natasha laughs at that. “Hey,” Laura says. “I mean it. I won’t bail you out of some Malibu jail.”

 

“Yeah, but Fury will,” Natasha says, smiling, a real smile, not the false one she puts into place for Tony and Happy and Pepper. “I really do have to go.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Natasha hesitates with her thumb hovering over the _end call_ button. “Hey,” she says. “I just wanted you to know--”

 

She breaks off, the words catching in her throat. There’s so much she wants to tell them, but they feel hollow in her mouth.

 

“Nat,” Clint says, his voice gentle. “We know.”

 

Natasha blinks. “You do?” She narrows her eyes. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

 

“Don’t I?”

 

He says it with a smile in his voice, and Natasha laughs despite herself, because as insane as Clint drives her, there’s never been any denying that he’s always known her better than she knows herself. “You do,” she admits, her lips curling. “I have to go.”

 

“You do that,” Laura says. “Call us in the morning.”

 

Natasha closes her eyes. “I will,” she promises, and means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: discussion of suicidal ideation, reference to canon-typical violence
> 
> Welcome to a chapter full of Mature Relationship Discussions! Those of you reading super-closely may realize that I screwed up my dates a bit, and due to the way months tend to work, have ended up with a Lila who is an older five rather than a young six in August of 2015, which is when the 2015 scenes take place. I'm coming clean about this so that you all know I've noticed, and hopefully you'll all forgive me. 
> 
> (As someone who works with kids, though, I promise she's still realistic. Five-and-a-half-year-old girls are some of the most intelligent and precocious creatures on the planet, and they're an absolutely exasperating joy to work with.)
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who continues to leave comments on this work. I promise that I read each and every one of them, and they always make me smile! Extra thanks go out to [deb](http://debz0rz.tumblr.com) for her proofreading (and for pointing out, in amusement, how similar Clint is to my husband), and to [isjustprogress](http://isjustprogress.tumblr.com) for listening to me whine through writer's block and not letting me slack off on my posting schedule. Sorry you've been having such a rough few weeks, my dear, and I hope this chapter helps cheer you up a bit!
> 
> Questions? Comments? Visit me [on tumblr](http://geniusorinsanity.tumblr.com)!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: FEELINGS AHEAD.
> 
> See the end of chapter notes for actual trigger warnings.

**2011**

 

“Have I mentioned,” Clint says, grimacing at the barometer in his gear bag, “that I fucking hate Singapore?”

 

“You have,” Natasha says, pushing her sweat-dampened hair back and trying not to roll her eyes at him. “But it bears repeating.”

 

The mission is an 0-8-4, following up on a report from the SHIELD satellite office in Thailand. They hit trouble with the local police when they landed, and now they’ve spent the last three days holed up in a cheap hotel room with no air conditioning, feeling generally hot and sweaty and cranky. Clint exhausted Phil’s patience by the end of day two, and has mostly been sulking while Natasha tries--and fails--to work with the locals. It ends up being a permit issue that Natasha doesn’t have the clearance to deal with, and they’re stuck until SHIELD files a bunch of paperwork.

 

Clint flops back on the bed, tossing an arrowhead at the makeshift target he’d drawn on the back of a SHIELD fax and taped to the wall. It soars across the room and embeds itself in the center of the target, which then promptly un-tapes itself from the wall and falls to the floor. He sighs, rolling out of bed. “Maybe we can leave,” he suggests. “Come back once all this permit shit gets sorted out.”

 

Natasha glances at him, exasperated. She will never understand why a man who can sit in a sniper’s nest for hours on end without complaint turns into a jittery ball of nerves and impatience when shut into a room with nothing to shoot. “We can’t leave,” she says, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “Not after the thing you and Phil dealt with in New Mexico; SHIELD wants a constant presence in case anything goes wrong.”

 

“It was mostly Phil,” Clint says, a little glumly. “I just hung out in a nest, got wet, and didn’t shoot anybody.”

 

She rolls her eyes. “I’d have taken that over babysitting Tony Stark.”

 

He cocks a teasing brow. “I thought you were doing a personality assessment.”

 

“Fury can call it what it wants,” Natasha says flatly. She finishes cleaning a gun and slides the clip back into place. “Fortunately, Pepper Potts exists.”

 

“Yeah, I’ve heard good things.” Clint re-tapes his target to the wall and flops back down on the bed. “Fury had me check out her security when Stark made her CEO, make sure they were gonna do their jobs right. I don’t think anyone wants to see the bender Stark’d go on if anything happened to her.”

 

Natasha nods her agreement. She’d liked Pepper--whoever had put together the dossier on her had done a horrible job, leaving Natasha with the impression that Stark’s executive PA was an overworked doormat. It had taken Natasha less than a glance to see that Pepper’s chic, professional appearance hid a sharp mind and fierce determination--the true steel behind Stark’s iron suit. “You might be surprised,” she says. “She’s got a lot of fight in her.”

 

Clint shakes his head. “I could see it,” he says, tossing another arrowhead at the target. He squints after it, and his lips twitch up in a slight smirk of satisfaction. “She reminds me of Laura, a bit.”

 

The comparison takes Natasha by surprise for a moment, and then she laughs, because maybe that’s part of why she’d liked Pepper so quickly as well. They have the same easy competence, the same ability to effortlessly express fondness, exasperation, and worry without betraying annoyance. “I hadn’t noticed it,” she says, shaking her head. “But you’re right.”

 

The sat phone on the dresser rings, and Natasha snaps it up. “Sir,” she says immediately. “Are we set?”

 

“You’re set,” Coulson says. He sounds tired and irritated, like he’s spent the last three days buried in paperwork, and Natasha figures he probably has. “I’m sending the coordinates to you now. You’ll have to liaise with local police, it’s the only way they’d cooperate. Try not to get them killed.”

 

“You got it.” Natasha checks her phone, opening the encrypted email labeled URGENT: COORDS and scribbling the two lines of numbers down on a scrap of paper that Clint hasn’t yet turned into target practice. “What’s the protocol on the 0-8-4?”

 

“Surveillance and evaluation. If it looks alien, call for backup and we’ll send in a science squad.”

 

Clint waves a hand to get her attention. She glances at him, and he signs a quick question to her. “Clint wants to know what we do if someone else tries to get their hands on it.”

 

“Do what you do best,” Coulson says dryly. “Avoid civilian casualties, please.” He pauses. “You’ll be in a fairly tight urban area,” he says, a little more serious now. “And the local authorities have been hell to deal with. If things go wrong, we won’t be able to send in an extraction team.”

 

Natasha smiles. “Don’t worry, sir,” she says. “We never have an extraction plan.”

 

“Just covering my bases,” Coulson says. “Next check-in at eighteen hundred hours, please.”

 

“Yes, sir.” She closes off the call, and then tosses her phone at Clint. He catches it without looking, and then glances at her. “Gear up,” she tells him. “It’s time to go.”

 

The 0-8-4, it turns out, is a weapon of some kind, dredged out of the river during the Boat Quay restoration project and then stuffed in the back of a police storage unit while they figured out what to do with it. According to the police lieutenant working with them, it’s “just been sitting there” for nearly twenty years. Natasha wants to strangle someone, but she puts on a pleasant smile and asks him to please give her the keys to the storage locker.

 

“You’re losing your touch,” Clint says as they make their way into the storage facility. “You almost let the murder show on your face.”

 

She smiles sweetly at him. “How’s that most recent stab wound, Clint?”

 

He snorts. “Not even going to leave a scar, thanks for asking. I appreciate you using your pen and not your knife. You know you can’t keep stabbing me every time I annoy you, right? I know we’re not a _thing_ anymore, but there’s such a thing as an abusive friendship, you know.”

 

They find the right door and Natasha unlocks it while Clint scans the long, narrow hallway of the facility, his eyes sharp. “It’s not really that I want to hurt you,” Natasha says, talking more to the lock than to Clint, not quite willing to look at him. “You know that, right?”

 

“Mm,” he says affirmatively. She glances up at him. His gaze is focused, calculating; he isn’t looking at her. But his voice, when he speaks, is still attentive. “I figure you’re just still trying to figure out ways to handle expressing strong feelings now that you can’t fuck me to get being pissed out of your system.”

 

He’s right, of course, and she makes a face at the lock as it clicks open, just because. “You’d think that after this long it would be a little easier,” she says.

 

Clint chuckles quietly, glancing over his shoulder at her as she slides into the open locker, drawing the scanner from her jacket pocket. “Hard habit to break,” he says. He pauses. “You could be having sex with other people, you know,” he says.

 

Natasha looks sharply back at him. “What’s that tone for?”

 

He narrows his eyes. “I didn’t use a tone,” he says, defensiveness creeping into his voice.

 

“Yes, you did,” she says. She puts the scanner back in her pocket and turns, crossing her arms and ignoring the 0-8-4 behind her. “That’s your _I don’t like this but I don’t want to tell you that_ voice, Clint. You think I don’t know all your tones by now?”

 

Clint scowls at her, but she holds his gaze firmly, and he sighs, rolling his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “I don’t _want_ you to be fucking other people, Nat. Jesus, did you really need me to say it?”

 

Natasha frowns. “We slept with other people while we were still together,” she reminds him. “You never had a problem with it then.”

 

“I haven’t slept with anyone other than you and Laura in fifteen years,” he says sharply. “And I’m pretty sure that once you took up with me and Laura, you weren’t going for it anywhere else--Laura wouldn’t have put up with it. It was just the three of us for almost nine years, Nat, can you blame me for having a little trouble adjusting back to you playing the field again?”

 

Irritation prickles under her skin. “I gave you the option,” she retorts. “You were the one who closed the door on us sleeping together.”

 

Clint’s eyes harden. “Sorry if I can’t fuck you and pretend I don’t love you, Natasha,” he says flatly. “Didn’t realize it was such a hardship.”

 

Natasha digs her fingers into her upper arms, forcing herself to keep her expression calm. When she’d left, there had been too much sadness and hurt for Clint or Laura to really be angry with her. Laura had hit her breaking point last year, and it seems like Clint’s finally gotten to his. Still, the way he’s doing feels like a blow to her stomach and her freedom, and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from twisting her lips into a scowl. “We’re doing this now?” she demands. “In the middle of a job?”

 

For a moment, Clint’s lips tighten, and she thinks he really will start in on her now. Fortunately, the other end of the storage facility chooses that instant to explode, sparing them the challenge of attempting to deal with their feelings like adults.

 

The shockwave of the explosion knocks them both back, Natasha crashing into the 0-8-4 (which is lumpy and metal and seriously unpleasant to land on) and Clint tumbling into the wall, catching himself millimeters from smashing his head against the concrete. Natasha swears, struggling to sit up and coughing in the smoke that fills the building. “Fuck,” she says, wincing as her shoulder pulls. Everything hurts, but nothing hurts so much it seems broken, and she’s pretty sure none of her organs are crushed. “Clint?”

 

He groans, spits out blood, and pushes himself up. “What the fuck,” he says, sounding more annoyed than in pain, and she breathes a sigh of relief. “Is it so much to ask that a single one of our jobs goes the way it’s supposed to? Just one?”

 

Natasha nearly laughs despite herself. “I think they intentionally give us the ones that are going to go tits-up,” she says. She rolls off the 0-8-4 and pulls the sheet off it, trying to figure out what it is. It’s metal and clearly a weapon, but it doesn’t seem alien--she flickers through her mental files, comparing it to the litany of weaponry types the Red Room drilled into her mind, and realizes that it’s an old Nazi weapon, never actually used during the War. Hydra had developed it, an attempt at combining automatic mounted machine guns with laser technology. Judging by the water damage, this one’s been at the bottom of the Singapore River for most of the second half of the twentieth century. “This isn’t going to be anything SHIELD wants,” she says, turning back to Clint, who has his bow drawn and is peering out of the locker. “What’s going on out there?”

 

“I see stupid yellow jumpsuits,” Clint says, firing an arrow into the smoke. There’s a strangled scream and a thump, and his lips twitch in a smirk. “So AIM’s here.”

 

She sighs. “I hate AIM,” she mutters. Their wet workers are always the cheapest minions around, not even close to the tier of contractors she and Clint were, and that just annoys her. She prefers to work with professionals, even if they are trying to kill her. It’s just a point of pride. “Can we shoot our way out?”

 

“We can,” Clint says. “But it’ll suck. They’re turning the hallway into a kill box.”

 

Natasha swears under her breath. “Well, we can’t stay here forever.”

 

“They’ll run out of bullets eventually,” Clint begins, and then frowns. He steps backward, into the relative cover of the locker, and pulls something out of his pocket.

 

Natasha’s jaw drops. “Clint,” she says, disbelieving. “Is that your _phone_?”

 

‘“Shush,” Clint says, frowning at the screen. She’s actually a little impressed the thing is still working, given how hard he was thrown into the wall. “It’s Laura’s dad.” He puts the phone to his ear. “Cal?” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the bullets flying past them. “Really not a good time. What’s going on?”

 

He listens for a long moment, and then the color drains from his face. Natasha freezes. “Clint?”

 

Clint snaps up a finger, clearly telling her to wait. “Where are the kids?” he asks, his face distracted and hard. “Okay. Stay with her. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He hangs up and shoves the phone into his pocket. “Change of plans,” he says shortly. “We’re shooting our way out.”

 

Natasha tenses. “What’s going on?”

 

“Laura’s in the hospital.” He draws an arrow, the tip blinking with an explosive head, and fits it to his bow, and glances back at her. “You coming?”

 

She pulls her guns from their holsters. “Lead the way,” she says, tamping down on worry and channeling it into fury instead. “And don’t get shot.”

 

They both get shot, but nowhere serious, and they patch themselves up on the SHIELD jet that meets them in Thailand. Clint slips the pilot two hundred dollars to bypass Des Moines and touch down at the smaller airstrip that’s only a handful of miles outside of town. They limp down the ramp together, Natasha leaning heavily on Clint thanks to the bullet wound in the fleshy muscle of her thigh, and meet Laura’s father, waiting for them beside a conservative black sedan and looking with vague surprise at the SHIELD jet already taxiing away from them to head back to the Hub. As they move closer, his gaze shifts to them, and he arches his eyebrows, taking in the visible bandage bulges under their clothing. “When you said it wasn’t a good time, you weren’t kidding,” he says dryly.

 

“Good to see you, too,” Clint says. “You remember Natasha?”

 

Cal nods briefly at her, and Natasha looks tightly, attempting a smile through the throbbing pain and mild blood loss. He opens the passenger side door, and Clint wordlessly helps Natasha in before half-collapsing into the back seat. “She’s doing better,” Cal says, pulling away from the air strip and turning them back onto the state highway.

 

“What the hell happened?” Clint asks, sliding into the middle of the seat.

 

“Turned out to be pneumonia,” Cal says. “Apparently she thought it was the flu.” He shakes his head, glancing at Clint in the rear-view mirror. “She gets that from her mother’s side. Walker women don’t like to admit when they need help.”

 

Natasha glances back at Clint and arches an eyebrow pointedly. “Not a damn word, Romanoff,” Clint says.

 

Cal looks at her. “Am I missing something?”

 

“Your son-in-law nearly keeled over on the jet because he was too busy pacing to let me know he needed stitches,” Natasha says. Clint flips her off.

 

“Ah,” Cal says. “I suppose it runs in the family, then.”

 

“Cal,” Clint says, leaning forward between the seats with a wince. “On the phone, you said Cooper called you?”

 

Cal’s face softens with concern. “He did,” he says. “Laura realized something was wrong and called us, but then she was having trouble breathing and couldn’t talk. Sarah talked to him while I called 911.”

 

“Jesus.” Clint rubs a hand over his face. “Is he okay? What about Lila?”

 

“They’re both fine. Sarah’s with them at the hospital now, the doctors said they could come for a visit.” Cal glances back in the rear-view again, his usually stern eyes surprisingly kind. “She’s going to be okay, Clint.”

 

“Yeah.” Clint closes his eyes, and, without thinking, Natasha stretches a hand back to him. His fingers latch tight onto hers, clinging. “Okay.”

 

Natasha hasn’t been to this hospital since Lila was born, and it feels different, colder. Cal leads the way, slowing his stride to allow Clint and Natasha, both limping, to keep up with him. They take an elevator up to the general medicine floor, heading down the hallway towards Laura’s room.

 

“ _Daddy!_ ”

 

Cooper’s shriek is high and immediate, and Clint drops down to his knees to catch Cooper in a tight, fierce hug. Cooper flings his arms around Clint’s neck and bursts into tears, and Natasha feels a lump in her throat, remembering the days when Cooper ran to her like that and wondering when he could possibly have gotten so _tall_. “You’re okay, buddy,” Clint murmurs, rubbing Cooper’s back and then climbing to his feet, Cooper still wrapped around him like a vice. He pales slightly as he rises, wavering, and Natasha catches his arm to steady him.

 

“Alright?” she murmurs.

 

He gives her a tight nod, and then turns his head to kiss Cooper’s cheek. “Hey, sweetheart,” he says gently. “Daddy’s gotta go see Grandma and Mommy. Can you walk for me?”

 

“No,” Cooper says, stubbornly clinging to Clint’s neck.

 

Clint sighs, but shifts his grip on Cooper and carries him down the hallway.

 

Laura’s mother, Sarah, meets them in front of a closed door, Lila asleep in her arms. She smiles faintly at both of them, leaning up to kiss Clint’s cheek. “Are you okay, honey?”

 

“I’ll live,” Clint says. “Cooper, bud, I need you to get down. Daddy’s got some hurts and he needs to take it easy.”

 

Cooper makes a face, but unwinds his arms and slides down Clint’s front to land on the floor. He looks up at Natasha as if seeing her for the first time. “Hi, Auntie Nat,” he says, almost shyly.

 

Natasha swallows hard. “Hi, baby,” she says. He looks at her for a moment, and then comes closer and wraps his arms around her waist. His head comes up past her belly button now--when did this child get so _tall_?--and she has to close her eyes tight against the tears prickling against them, stroking his hair. When she opens them again, it takes several blinks before the hallway stops blurring.

 

“How is she?” Clint asks Sarah, leaning against the wall. “I thought you’d be in with her.”

 

“They’re changing her IV,” Sarah says, shifting Lila in her arms. “Lila got upset about the needle and the doctor asked me to take her out until she calmed down.” She shakes her head. “She fell asleep just about as soon as we stepped out. I think she’s just overwhelmed, poor thing.”

 

Clint reaches out, brushing his fingers gently over Lila’s dark hair. “I bet,” he says. “And Laura?”

 

“She’s been resting,” Sarah says, sitting back down on the soft-looking vinyl bench she’d abandoned as they approached. “They have her on a high dose of antibiotics and an oxygen treatment to help her lungs.” She pauses, studying Clint’s face. “She’s going to be fine, Clint. They say they’ll keep her here a few days for observation, and then let you take her home.” She frowns then, looking Clint up and down. “Maybe _you_ ought to be admitted,” she says. “You look awful.”

 

Cal joins them. “Natasha says she had to give Clint stitches on the plane,” he says, giving Clint a level look.

 

Sarah narrows her eyes. “And that’s on the plane from where, exactly?”

 

“Classified,” Natasha says, at the same time that Clint says, “Singapore.” She frowns at him, and he shrugs.

 

“No point in trying to stay classified with this family,” he says. “First thing I learned.” His gaze shifts to the door to Laura’s room. “I should go in there,” he says.

 

Sarah’s eyes soften. “You could rest a little,” she says. “You look dead on your feet.”

 

Clint shakes his head. “I slept a bit on the plane,” he says. It’s a dead lie, but Natasha doesn’t call him on it. She knows he wants to see Laura, that it’s his fierce dislike of hospitals and the stomach-churning fear of seeing Laura in pain that makes him hesitate. He leans down and kisses Lila’s forehead, then heads to Laura’s door.

 

He puts his hand on the knob, and then pauses, glancing back at Natasha. He looks at her, hesitation clear on his face. She scans his face and freezes, realizing that he’s trying to figure out whether or not to invite her to come with him.

 

“Don’t worry about me,” she says, sitting down on the bench beside Sarah and hefting Cooper into her lap. He curls into her, resting his head on her shoulder, and she loops an arm around her. “Stitches are holding fine. Go see your wife.”

 

She doesn’t put extra emphasis _your wife_. She doesn’t need to. Natasha holds Clint’s gaze, silently begging him not to push her. She needs this boundary.

 

“Don’t bleed on my kids,” he says finally, his eyes sad but understanding. “I’ll tell Laura you say hi.”

 

He opens the door, and Natasha catches the briefest glance of Laura’s tired face breaking into a radiant smile at the sight of him before it clicks shut behind him.

 

**2015**

 

A heavy rain began to fall in the early afternoon, the sort of fierce summer storm that swept out of nowhere and instantly soaked the ground. Unable to play outside, Cooper sat on the couch and poked moodily at his tablet, and while Laura wouldn’t normally have stood for that sort of moping, she had one sick daughter and one crying baby, and decided to just pick her battles on this one.

 

“Well, she’s asleep again,” Clint said, coming downstairs with a laundry basket of baby clothes propped against his hip. He glanced at Nate, currently wailing while Laura bounced him gently in her arms, and made a sympathetic face. “Still?”

 

Laura sighed. “I think it’s the sound of the rain,” she said, trying not to let the frustration creep too loudly into her voice. “He’s been fed, he’s been changed, he doesn’t have a temperature…”

 

She sounded pitiful and exhausted even to her own ears, and Clint put the laundry down. “Here,” he said gently, holding out his arms. “Let me.”

 

Laura handed him over. She was long past the stage of turning away perfectly good help just out of some misguided belief that, as the mother, she should be the singular authority on soothing her baby. Still, she couldn’t help feeling slightly validated when Nate didn’t immediately stop crying when placed in Clint’s arms.

 

“I saw that,” Clint said, and Laura gave him a small, guilty look. He laughed softly, leaning over and kissing her cheek. “Go tell Natasha to make you some tea or something.”

 

Laura nodded tiredly, returning his kiss and heading into the kitchen. Natasha and Wanda sat together at the table, Natasha assembling a game of Ticket to Ride while Wanda looked on curiously, and Natasha glanced up at her as she entered. “Hey,” she said, and cocked an eyebrow. “Where’s the kid? You didn’t just leave him somewhere, right? We’ve talked about this.”

 

“Ha, ha,” Laura said, pulling out a chair and collapsing into it. “Clint says you should make me some tea because I’m a wonderful mother who has not smothered any of her children despite their apparently synchronized attempts to drive me to do so, and should therefore be rewarded.”

 

“I think all he said was to make you some tea,” Natasha said, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “But I’ll go put some water up.”

 

She got to her feet, leaving Wanda to finish carefully lining red trains into rows. Laura plucked the bag of yellow trains from the bag, following suit. “Did Natasha explain the game to you?” she asked.

 

Wanda nodded. “We were thinking of asking Cooper to play.”

 

“Give him his space,” Laura said, shaking her head. “He’s being upset right now, and when he’s like this he just needs to get himself into a good mood on his own.”

 

Wanda tilted her head thoughtfully. “That’s very respectful of you.”

 

Laura shrugged. “It’s as much for us as it is for him,” she said, honestly. “It’s no fun hanging out with a kid who doesn’t want to hang out with you.”

 

The sound of crying in the living room slowly started to quiet, and Laura leaned back in her chair. “Clint?” she called.

 

He came in a moment later, Nate asleep in his arms. Laura stared at him. “What did you _do_?”

 

“I used my amazing dad powers,” he joked, sitting down next to her. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he raised one hand defensively, holding Nate with the other. “I actually don’t know. He just fell asleep. He might have just cried himself out.” He peered at the game. “Hey, train game.”

 

“Touch those black pieces and I kill you, Hawkeye,” Natasha said mildly, coming back with a steaming mug. She set the mug down in front of Laura and took her seat back, tossing the bag of blue trains to Clint.

 

He caught it one-handed and frowned at her, pointing one finger at Nate. “Seriously, Nat?”

 

“Like you had any trouble catching it,” she retorted.

 

Clint rolled his eyes, but took a cookie from the plate in the middle of the table. “Coop’s still pouting,” he told Laura, shifting Nate slightly to keep any crumbs from falling on him. “In case you were wondering.”

 

Laura sighed. “He gets that from you, you know,” she said. “I don’t pout.”

 

Natasha let out a surprised bark of laughter. “You’re joking,” she said. “You’re joking, right?”

 

“What?” Laura frowned. “I don’t!”

 

“You do,” Clint said.

 

“But you’re very pretty when you pout,” Natasha said, flashing Clint a quick grin. “So we don’t usually complain about it.”

 

Wanda looked amused, taking two train cards from the draw pile. “I did not know you watched her so carefully,” she told Natasha.

 

Natasha opened her mouth briefly, and then closed it. “I watch everyone carefully,” she said. “It’s my job.”

 

Clint snorted. “Nice.”

 

They played a few turns, going in laps around the table and collecting cards. “Hey,” Laura said, picking up a pair of red trains. “Can I ask about something?”

 

Natasha and Clint exchanged glances, and when Natasha looked back at Laura, her expression was somewhat guarded. “Of course,” she said slowly.

 

“I talked to my mother earlier,” Laura began, and then paused, not entirely sure how to continue. She tapped her cards against the table for a moment, thinking. “She said there’s been some unrest about the Avengers’...lack of oversight, I guess, since Sokovia.” She glanced at Wanda, but the young woman’s expression gave nothing away. “I hadn’t heard anything about it, though I haven’t really been listening for it...Do you know anything about this?”

 

Wanda pressed her lips together, looking at Natasha. Natasha was quiet, running her thumb over the edge of her cards. “There’s been some talk,” she said finally. “Rumors, really, so far. But there are people who think we’ve been operating too independently. That after what happened with SHIELD and Hydra, someone should be making sure we’re not crossing too many lines.”

 

“Someone?” Clint echoed. “Someone government?”

 

Natasha shrugged. “Like I said, it’s just rumors.”

 

Wanda frowned. “I have not heard these rumors,” she said. “And when Ultron attacked Sokovia, it was not the governments who came to help us. It was you. And SHIELD.”

 

“But Ultron wouldn’t have existed to come after you in the first place without us,” Natasha pointed out. Her voice was gentle, but there was steel in it.

 

“I’d like to just mention,” Clint said dryly, “that Ultron wasn’t _us_. It was Stark. Who’s pretty much pulled out of the game, last I checked.”

 

“What kind of oversight does the government think you should have?” Laura asked, shooting Clint a sharp look and leaning forward, resting her elbows on the table. “A liaison role, like SHIELD had?”

 

“I don’t know,” Natasha said. “Some kind of accountability, I suppose.”

 

Her tone was light, conversational, but there was something to it that made Laura feel strangely uneasy. Clint narrowed his eyes at her. “Natasha,” he said, his voice tinged with suspicion. “What--”

 

A rushing gust of wind knocked a branch off one of the trees by the house, sending it flying into one porch columns with a crash. Nate jerked awake with a wail at the sudden noise, effectively cutting off whatever Clint would have said next. He shot Natasha a look, the sort that Laura knew well meant _we’ll talk about this later_ , and climbed to his feet, bouncing Nate in his arms and shushing him softly. Laura glanced back at Natasha in time to see relief flicker briefly across her features, and she frowned.

 

“I don’t like it,” Wanda said, Laura looked at her in surprise. “Governments have too many procedures, too many rules. By the time they might let us act on something, many people could die.”

 

“Maybe,” Natasha said. “Or they could let us know about potential ramifications of our actions. About what happens once the fight’s over and the dust settles.”

 

Laura raised her eyebrows. “You almost sound like you’re in favor,” she said.

 

Natasha shook her head. “I’m not saying that,” she said. “It’s just...it’s not so black and white.”

 

Wanda frowned at her. “Without us, everyone in Sokovia would have died.”

 

“I know that,” Natasha said. “But we made a hell of a mess, too.”

 

“There’ll be a mess no matter what, if you guys are called in,” Laura said, picking up her mug of tea. “Assembling an...I don’t know, an Avengers committee won’t change that.”

 

“No, but it _would_ mean a lot less logistical hell and backlash afterward, if we’re called in knowing that there’s a possibility of collateral damage.” Natasha ran a hand through her hair. “Anyway, it’s all just based on rumors that people are pissed at us. There might not even be anything to it.”

 

Laura sipped her tea, looking thoughtfully at Natasha over the ceramic rim of the mug. Natasha looked steadily back, her expression almost challenging. “Mmhm,” she said, not quite convinced. Something in Natasha’s eyes made her want to push, but she held herself back. “Well, rumor or not,” she said decisively, putting her mug down and picking up her cards again. “I’m with Wanda on this. After what happened with SHIELD…” She shook her head, shivering. “I can’t say I like the idea of you guys being under government control. I feel like you wouldn’t know who to trust.”

 

Natasha smiled, showing a flash of teeth. “Well, that’s the trick,” she said, almost wryly. “I don’t trust anyone.”

 

Clint came back into the room, Nate once again asleep in the crook of his arm. “Did I miss the whole debate?”

 

“Most of it,” Laura told him, leaning over him to gently stroke Nate’s hair. “He okay?”

 

Clint nodded. “Just mad at the rain,” he said. “But as long as there’s no thunder, I might take Cooper out to run around in it in a little while. He’s getting antsy.”

 

“Better you than me,” Laura said, leaning back in her chair.

 

Clint grinned across the table. “What about you?”

 

“I don’t think so,” Natasha said dryly.

 

“Come on, Nat, you used to love a little rain.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.  “Remember Nicaragua in oh-nine?”

 

“Nicaragua in oh-nine was a _hurricane_ ,” Laura reminded him.

 

He waved a hand dismissively. “Details,” he said. “I had a great time.”

 

“You almost drowned,” Natasha said, and Laura knew from experience that only years-- _years_ \--of practice kept her from looking and sounding utterly exasperated.

 

“Like I said,” Clint said with a shrug. “I had a great time.”

 

Wanda shook her head at him. “You are a very strange man,” she said.

 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Laura said with a sigh, reaching across the table to pick up a pair of cards. “You don’t even know the half of it.”

 

**2011**

 

“Don’t suppose I can convince you to change your mind,” Fury says.

 

“Sorry, Nick,” Clint says, holding the phone between his shoulder and ear. His hands are full, Lila propped on his hip and secured with one arm, his coffee cup in the other. “Docs say that Laura’s gotta take it easy for at least four weeks, which means I’m pulling dad duty.”

 

“You’re half my best team, Barton,” Fury grumbles.

 

“Only half,” Clint says lightly.

 

“Half,” Lila agrees, trying to take the phone. She manages to tug it out from its precarious place against Clint’s shoulder and holds it up to her own ear. “Half!” she chirps happily into it.

 

“Half,” Fury confirms. And then, to Clint’s surprise, he says gently, “Give your daddy back the phone, baby.”

 

Lila blinks, like she’s as surprised by the kindness in Fury’s tone as Clint is, but hands the phone back to Clint. “Phone, Daddy,” she says.

 

“Thanks, sweetheart.” Clint puts his coffee down on the kitchen counter. “Look, Nick, I’ll be back at the beginning of next month. You’re really trying to tell me you don’t have any solo ops you can send Nat on in the meantime?”

 

“That’s not the point,” Fury says, but he huffs a sigh. “Put Natasha on the phone.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Clint leans his head around the wall. “Nat!”

 

Natasha looks up from the game of checkers she’s playing with Cooper. “What?”

 

Clint waggles the phone at her. “Fury.”

 

Natasha nods. “Be right back, kiddo,” she tells Cooper, bending down to kiss the top of his head and then padding barefoot into the kitchen. Clint passes her the phone, and she tickles Lila’s chin briefly, smiling when Lila giggles before putting the phone to her ear. “Romanoff,” she says.

 

Clint picks up his coffee and motions for Natasha to follow him back into the living room to keep some supervision in with the kids, setting Lila on the floor with her blocks and gesturing to the stairs. Natasha nods, sitting back on the couch and moving a checkers piece while talking casually to Fury, and Clint ruffles Cooper’s hair and heads upstairs.

 

Laura’s in bed when he slips into the bedroom, propped up against several pillows and flipping vaguely through a novel. She still looks pale and tired from a week of IV antibiotics and hospital food, but she smiles when Clint comes through the door. “Hey, you,” she says. “How are the kids?”

 

“The kids are fine,” he says, sitting down on the side of the bed. “Don’t worry about the kids. How are you?”

 

She makes a face. “I’m bored,” she says. “Bored, Clint. Really bored.”

 

“Tough,” he says, leaning over to kiss her cheek and passing her the mug of coffee as a peace offering. “The doctor said a week of bed rest and then another three of light duty, so you’re benched, woman.”

 

“I don’t want to be benched,” she complains.

 

Clint grins. “Ha,” he says. “Hold that thought.” He climbs off the bed, rummaging around in his desk until he finds a folded up, faded piece of paper, carrying it back to the bed and presenting it to Laura with a flourish. “Your words, my dearest wife, for your eating pleasure.”

 

Laura raises her eyebrows at him, but puts the coffee on the bedside table. “‘I, Laura Barton, solemnly state that should I ever be in the position of being on bed rest, I will be a much better patient than my husband, the worst patient on the face of the planet.’” She cocks an eyebrow. “When did I write this?”

 

“I wanna say...four-ish years ago?” Clint sits back down. “Whenever I took that knife to the thigh in Belarus.”

 

“That would be four years ago,” Laura says dryly, handing the paper back. “And point made. Bed rest sucks. Can I get up now?”

 

“No, ma’am. You should’ve thought of that before you let the flu turn into bacterial pneumonia, and then waited an extra week to go to a doctor.” He cocks a brow. “Oh, wait, no you didn’t. You passed out cold and nearly gave our five-year-old a heart attack.”

 

Laura flops back against her pillows, picking up her coffee again. “You know,” she says sourly, “if I hadn’t already cried about that and you hadn’t already comforted me about it and assured me that I haven’t traumatized him for life, that would have been really low blow.”

 

Clint laughs, leaning over and kissing her forehead. “Fortunately, I’m not a shitty husband.” He smooths her hair back. “Seriously, Laur,” he says, gentler. “I know it sucks. But it’s gonna be okay. I called the school and talked to some lady in Human Resources about medical leave and a long-term substitute for your art classes. I told Fury I’m taking some time off to be here for you and the kids. The next couple weeks are gonna be boring and crappy, I won’t lie, but the world’s not going to fall apart. Alright?”

 

Laura looks at him, her eyes wide and swimming with tears. “Oh, come on,” Clint says, tucking a few wisps of hair behind her ear. “Don’t cry.”

 

“I’m not.” She sniffles. “You’re just a really good guy, okay?”

 

He snorts. “I think this is basically the bare minimum of what a guy should do for the mother of his children, Laura,” he says, but she gives him a watery smile and he can’t help returning it. That’s his girl.

 

Nat leaves to go back to DC at the end of the week, and Clint finds himself spending the next weeks running the show at home. Laura’s still mostly bedridden, even though she doesn’t have to be anymore, and Clint gains an immediate new appreciation for how much Laura does. Not that he’d ever had any confusion about it, but it occurs to him pretty much right away that he isn’t nearly as well-suited to keeping a reasonably put-together house as she is.

 

“I’m really shitty at this,” he tells Natasha over the phone when she’s been gone a week. The kids have gone to bed and Laura’s been asleep for two hours already, and Clint’s cleaning up the kitchen. “Seriously, I don’t know how she does it when I’m not here, Nat. This is definitely a two-person job.”

 

“It’s just cleaning, Clint,” Natasha says.

 

He can hear music trickling through the other end of the line, and cocks an eyebrow. “Are you on a job?”

 

“Sort of,” she says. “It’s nothing I can’t multitask through.”

 

“Yeah, well, don’t get shot, we only just stitched you up from the last time.” Clint puts the last dish into the drainer and moves onto the living room, surveying the mess with a sigh. “And it’s not just cleaning, Nat, it’s the cleaning and the cooking and the laundry and the giving love and affection to try and raise reasonably well-adjusted kids and taking care of Laura and…” he sighs. “I didn’t have a normal childhood, I don’t know how to do this shit.”

 

Natasha sighs. “Clint,” she says patiently. “You’re a good dad. You’re a good husband. Laura doesn’t care if the house is spotless or if the kids’ clothes match or if every load of laundry is done perfectly.” Something shatters. “And now I have to stop multitasking. Sorry. Can we reschedule this trip down self-deprecation lane?”

 

“Love you, too, Nat,” Clint says dryly. She laughs in his ear, and hangs up the phone.

 

**2015**

 

The rain lasted through the afternoon and into the early evening, turning the well-tended farmland into acres of squishy, faintly sweet-smelling mud. Cooper, with the sort of enthusiasm that Clint remembered from his own childhood, gleefully took Clint up on the offer of outside playtime, and spent two hours getting himself to the level of filthy that only nine-year-olds seemed to be able to achieve. Clint, who didn’t stay all that clean himself, couldn’t help laughing often as Cooper challenged him to all manner of muddiness-enhancing competitions--wrestling, tree-climbing, trench-digging (Clint put the kibosh on that one, claiming it wasn’t fair to Mike, who did the brunt of their landscaping), and cornfield hide-and-seek.

 

When the sky began to darken, Clint sent Cooper inside for a warm shower. Wiping the rainwater from his eyes, he moved to follow Cooper into the house, but was intercepted when Natasha stepped onto the porch wearing running gear and an all-too-familiar wicked glint in her eye. Clint groaned. “Nat,” he complained. “Come on. I just spent two hours chasing my kid around, you’re really gonna make me run?”

 

“Bullets are faster than your nine-year-old,” she said dryly. Behind her, Wanda, also dressed for a run, laughed softly.

 

Clint sighed. “Alright, fine.” Natasha smirked, jogging down the steps, and then grimaced when the rain immediately soaked her, plastering her clothing to her body. “Ha,” Clint said, carefully looking at her face and not anything else.

 

She rolled her eyes. “Real mature, Clint.”

 

“I’m the picture of maturity,” he said, doing a few cursory stretches. Running around with Cooper had loosened his muscles, but runs with Natasha were far less merciful than mudball fights with his kid. “I can even keep a plant alive now.”

 

“Laura said it’s a cactus,” Wanda said, following Natasha into the rain and not so much as flinching when the downpour hit her. Then again, Clint thought, Eastern Europe was pretty cold. “And that she had to remind you not to overwater it.”

 

Dammit, Laura. “That’s not the point.” Natasha laughed, and Clint shot her a pointed look. “Sorry, what was that, Miss Can’t-keep-plants-alive-because-I-throw-them-at-people?”

 

She sniffed. “I’ve been unlucky with home invasions,” she said, managing to look prim despite the rain plastering her hair to her scalp. “Come on. Are we were running or not?”

 

“Not?” Clint suggested hopefully, but fell into step beside her at the look she shot him. He followed her lead and her pace, and knew she was setting an easier speed than she would have if she were running on her own. He wasn’t sure if it was for his benefit or Wanda’s, but chose not to comment.

 

As they followed the path into the woods, the dripping trees forming a canopy above them and keeping back the worst of the rain, Wanda spoke. “How often is it bullets?”

 

Clint glanced at her over his shoulders. The path was wide enough for all of them to run side by side, but she seemed content to fall back somewhat. “What do you mean?”

 

She tossed her wet ponytail over her shoulder. “When we have been training, Rogers teaches us to defend against enemies, but he talks about aliens, rockets, robots...not men with guns.” She brushed water from her eyes. “I just wanted to know. How often is it bullets?”

 

Clint snorted. “I guess it has been awhile,” he said. Even Hydra had started outfitting their goons with more advanced weapons. Absently, he touched the spot on his side where a Hydra attack had nearly ended his career in the Sokovian snow. “Maybe we’re just nostalgic. Simpler times, you know?”

 

“Steve has a point in training the way he does,” Natasha said. “Clint and I were never trained to fight in a world with…” Her lips twitched. “With monsters and magic and self-replicating artificial intelligence killbots. We had to learn to adapt our skillsets, and it was an uphill fight.”

 

“Right,” Clint agreed. “The likelihood that someone’s gonna call in the Avengers just to deal with a bunch of guys with M-16s is pretty slim, and if they did, it’s easier to respond to a less advanced attack than to do it the other way.” He shot a wry grin back at her. “I’ve got the scars to prove it.”

 

Wanda didn’t return his smile. “Bullets can still be deadly, even in a world of monsters and magic,” she said quietly, her voice barely carrying to him over the sound of the rain, and Clint knew she was thinking of her brother, dropped mid-stride in a rain of lead. Despite the downpour around him, Clint’s mouth felt dry, and words failed him.

 

Fortunately, Natasha had always been better with words than he was. “Yes, they can,” Natasha said, looking back at Wanda with concern in her eyes. “But if you can learn to stop an alien missile, Wanda, you can learn to stop a bullet. Steve’s good at his job. He’ll make sure you’re ready for anything.”

 

Wanda frowned. “How can you be sure?”

 

“You’re a fighter, Wanda,” Clint said. “An Avenger. No one I’d rather have at my back.”

 

Wanda’s expression flickered, thoughtfulness and something Clint couldn’t quite place in her eyes, and then, slowly, she nodded.

 

They continued their run in silence, and Clint let himself clear his mind, settling back into the sniper’s headspace he often entered when running. The world narrowed to his physical senses--the angle and velocity of the raindrops striking his skin gave him wind direction and speed, the rushing clattering of the branches that lined the path alerting him to potential threats and cover. His breathing evened, relaxing into its practiced, regulated rhythm. The slight tightness in his legs and side faded away into the background of his mind, to be briefly noted and then put away for later, when he could take the time to examine them.

 

Natasha reversed their direction at the quinjet, and Clint followed her signal wordlessly. They began the trek back to the house, maintaining their speed and order, Natasha leading and Wanda bringing up the rear.

 

As they neared the edge of the woods and the path that would take them back to the house, Wanda called, “Wait.”

 

Clint slowed and stopped, turning to her. She had stopped in the middle of the path, soaked through, looking at him with that same unreadable look. Natasha, a few yards ahead of him, her brow furrowing. “Everything okay?”

 

“Yes,” Wanda said, though she didn’t look like she believed it. “Could I...could I talk to Clint? Alone?”

 

Natasha raised her eyebrows, glancing at Clint. He frowned. “Out here? You don’t wanna go home first, dry off?”

 

“No,” she said, firmly now. “Here.”

 

Clint cocked a brow at her, but shrugged and looked at Natasha. “Go on,” he said. “We’re good here.”

 

Natasha lingered a moment longer, then seemed to decide that getting out of the rain was preferable to seeing what would happen next. “Don’t stay out too long,” she said. “Laura’ll kill you if there’s more sick people in the house.”

 

She turned, setting off at a gentle jog toward the house. Clint watched her go, waiting until she was out of sight before turning back to Wanda. “Okay,” he said, taking a few steps closer to her so that he didn’t have to shout over the rain. “What’s up, kid?”

 

Wanda pressed her lips together. Her eyes were stormy as she looked at him, her expression lost and almost wounded. “Why am I here?”

 

Clint blinked, raindrops clinging to his eyelashes with the motion. “What?”

 

Wanda waved one hand, an almost frustrated gesture. “I don’t understand this,” she said. “You brought me here, to your home. You showed me your family. The people you fight for. You let me stay here even though I could be dangerous to them, even though I could hurt them. And now all of this--training with me, letting me into your time with Natasha, telling me you would trust me to fight with you…” She shook her head, water flying from her sodden ponytail. “I know you feel guilty. For Pietro. But all of this...you don’t need. to.”

 

Clint stared at her, taken aback by the sudden speech. “Wanda,” he said, frowning. “Is that what you think this was? Some sort of...atonement?”

 

A muscle in her jaw jumped. “He died to save your life,” she said, her voice tight and thick. “It would not be so strange, to want to help the sister of the man who saved you.”

 

“No, it wouldn’t,” Clint said, trying not to let his voice rise. He took a breath, pushing a hand through his wet hair and rubbing at the back of his neck, a nervous gesture he’d never been able to shake. “But it would ignore me wanting to help you because you’re a person, Wanda.” He smiled wryly. “I feel like we keep telling you that. You’re your own person, and you deserve to have help and support, just for that.”

 

Wanda’s lower lip wavered, her eyes shining, and Clint realized that the dampness on her face wasn’t all rainwater. “I don’t know how,” she said, almost a whisper.

 

Clint had been a parent long enough to recognize the voice of someone heading toward tears. He kept his voice gentle, and his face calm. “You don’t know how to what, Wanda?”

 

She looked up at him, tears swimming in her eyes. “I don’t--” Her voice caught, and she took in a shaking, shuddering breath. “I don’t know how to do this by myself. How to do this without him.”

 

Clint’s heart clenched in his chest. She looked young, so fucking young, and the realization, not for the first time, that he was old enough to be her father hit him like a ton of bricks. He’d been torn, since the day he’d met her (properly met her, not when he’d just stabbed a shock arrow into her forehead to keep her out of his brain), about how to treat her--because she was a teammate, yeah, an ally, but fuck, she was a _kid_. A kid who’d lost her parents young, just like him, who’d fought tooth and nail to stay with her brother, who’d had him torn from her and felt her heart wrench from her chest.

 

He looked at her, and all he could see was his own kids, young and vulnerable and looking at him like they didn’t need a pep talk, they didn’t need reassurance--they just needed him to be there.

 

Taking in a deep breath, he did the only thing that made sense, and stepped forward, folding her into his arms. “I know, sweetheart,” he said, resting one hand gently against the back of her head. “But we’re going to figure it out.”

 

For a moment, she stiffened, and Clint wondered if he’d messed up, totally misread this. But then she sucked in a huge breath, shuddered, and burst into tears, her hands coming up and clenching in the soaked fabric of his shirt as she buried her face in his chest. Deep, soul-wracking sobs were muffled into his t-shirt, the unmistakable sound of heartbreak and loneliness and pain, and Clint held her, patient and quiet.

 

The rain came down, and he didn’t feel the cold.

 

**2011**

 

Five years into Clint’s career at SHIELD, and three into Natasha’s, Laura has adjusted to worrying. She’s good at worrying--she worries about Clint, about Natasha, about Cooper and Lila, about the farm, about her kids at school.

 

So she worries, and she thinks that she’s used to it, that she knows what it’s like to be worried and afraid.

 

But then Maria Hill turns up on her doorstep, and Laura realizes that she hasn’t even started to worry.

 

She’s met Maria before; Clint brought her out after Maria had a particularly bad mission, calling Laura and telling her that she needed “a real meal and some quality time with some living, breathing kids,” and Laura hadn’t asked questions. She likes her well enough--she reminds her of Natasha, in some ways. They have the same easy competence, the same humor, the same exasperated fondness for Clint.

 

Now, Maria stands on the porch in her SHIELD uniform, her face set and solemn as Laura opens the door. “Laura,” she says quietly.

 

The bottom drops out of Laura’s stomach, and she grabs at the doorframe to steady herself. “Oh my God,” she breathes. “Please, no.”

 

Maria’s expression changes rapidly. “He’s alive,” she says immediately. “Clint’s alive.”

 

Laura clings to the door, her head spinning. “Natasha?” she croaks.

 

“Her, too.” Maria takes her arm, her grip steadying and sure. “Here, let’s go inside. We’ll talk.”

 

Too confused and shaky to protest, Laura lets Maria lead her inside. Cooper’s on the floor in the living room, coloring, Lila drawing much less neatly beside him, and Laura wonders vaguely if she’s going to have to delay bedtime, and how much of a pain that’s going to be. Maria smiles at the kids but guides Laura to the kitchen table, pushing her gently but firmly into a chair. “Tea?” she asks, gesturing to the kitchen.

 

“Cabinet,” Laura says blankly, pointing. Maria nods and bustles efficiently into the kitchen, filling the kettle at the sink. Laura stares at the wall, trying to ground herself in the sounds of the children’s voices, the soft hissing and then whistling of the kettle, the clinking of ceramic as Maria makes tea. She tries to practice the deep breathing she teaches her students for when they’re anxious or stressed, deep breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth, letting her belly expand and contract with each breath.

 

Maria comes back, carrying two steaming mugs. She sets one down in front of Laura and sits down with the other. Her expression is grim, and Laura can’t wait anymore. “Tell me,” she says.

 

To Maria’s credit, she doesn’t flinch. “They were on an op in Beirut when they missed a check-in,” she says. “Teams on high-risk missions like that one check in every four hours. We don’t know how long after their last successful check-in they were captured, only that we lost them.”

 

Laura swallows, trying not to surrender to panic. “You said they’re alive,” she says. “How do you know?”

 

“All SHIELD agents have a bio-tracking device embedded under their skin,” Maria explains, running her thumbs over the surface of her mug. “We activate them if agents are missing in order to access their vital signs and GPS coordinates, to determine if a rescue is feasible.”

 

Laura casts a hesitant look over her shoulder at the kids, playing together and paying no attention to her or Maria. “So you found them,” she says. Maria nods. “Where are they?”

 

“Syria,” Maria says flatly. “We tracked them to a Ten Kings compound.”

 

Laura frowns. “Ten Kings? I thought they were based in Afghanistan.”

 

Maria’s lips twitch, without humor. “Apparently they’ve expanded their operation.”

 

Trying to tamp down on the terror bubbling in her veins, Laura takes a shaking breath. “Are they okay?”

 

“Vitals don’t show anything life-threatening,” Maria says, the sort of careful, practiced answer that Laura suspects she gives to human rights committees.

 

“And you’re sending someone in to rescue them,” Laura demands, tightening her grip on her mug. “Right?” Maria hesitates, and Laura glares at her. “ _Maria_.”

 

Maria sighs. “We’re putting together a strike team to do a retrieval,” she says. “Which I’m not technically supposed to tell you, since it’s a matter of national security.”

 

Laura bites her bottom lip. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” she says. “What is it?” Maria’s lips tighten, and Laura leans forward, reaching across the table and clasping Maria’s wrist. “Maria,” she says. “Please. This is my children’s father, and my--” her voice catches in her throat, and she swallows hard. “And my best friend. Please.”

 

Maria looks at her for a moment, her expression torn, and then she sighs. “The team’s primary objective is to complete Barton and Romanoff’s original mission,” she says. “If they can get Barton and Romanoff out, that’s an added bonus. But it’s not the target.”

 

“So they--” Laura feels sick. “They could leave them there?”

 

“Technically,” Maria says, like she’s reluctant. “But they won’t.”

 

Laura swallows. “How do you know?”

 

“Because,” Maria smiles, dark and sharp like a knife. “Phil Coulson and I will be leading that team, under Nick Fury’s personal command.” She squeezes Laura’s hands, her grip warm and firm. “Getting them back might not be our official mission,” she says, her voice deadly serious. “But you can be damn sure that we’ll bring them home.”

 

She stays long enough to finish her tea and press a slip of paper into Laura’s hand. “My personal line,” she says. “I’ll contact you when I can.” She smiles, the porch light glinting off her dark hair. “Leave the lights on.”

 

The week that follows is the longest of Laura’s life. She moves through her days in a blur, teaching, parenting, her phone never far from her hand. She has nightmares of darkness and pain and tears, barely-formed images that flicker through her mind, unable to fully take shape because she has only her imagination as a frame of reference, and wakes up sweating and shaking and crying, muffling her tears in her pillows to keep from waking the children.

 

Her phone rings early in the morning on the seventh day after Maria’s visit. She hasn’t gotten the children up yet, is still blindly measuring coffee grounds into a filter, and nearly spills the heaping tablespoon all over the counter as she fumbles for her phone. “Hello?”

 

“Laura,” Maria says, her voice tired and strained.

 

Laura’s knees go weak, and she grabs at the countertop. “Did you find them?”

 

“We did,” she says, and exhausted relief floods through Laura’s veins. “Got someone here who wants to talk to you, unless you’re busy?”

 

The sound that makes it past Laura’s mouth is torn somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Please,” she says, and Maria laughs gently before there’s a rustling sound, a phone being passed between two hands.

 

She’s expecting Clint, but instead, Natasha’s voice comes through the phone. “Hey, Laura.”

 

“Tasha,” Laura breathes, and all of the boundaries of carefully developed friendship disappear. “Oh my God, sweetheart, I was so worried, I was so scared.” The words come out in a frantic jumble, but she can’t make herself rein them in. “Are you alright? Is Clint?” Worry hits her again, and she freezes, her hand tightening on the phone. “Why didn’t Maria give him the phone?”

 

“We’ll both live,” Natasha says, and she sounds tired and a little breathless, her breathing audible against the phone’s speakers, like she’s pressing it tightly against her face. “He’s not quite up to talking yet, but he’s signing a bit. He says he loves you.”

 

“Tell him I love him too,” Laura says. “Both of you. Natasha, you’re coming home, right? Both of you, you’re coming home?”

 

 _Please_ , she doesn’t say, _please come home, I need to see you. I need to see you both in one piece._

 

“Yes,” Natasha says, and long years of listening for the subtle lilts in her voice let Laura hear the longing there. “We’re coming home.”

 

It takes sixteen hours, and she feels every minute deep in her bones. She puts the kids to bed and sits up on the couch, a novel in her hands that doesn’t seem to have any words, too anxious to read. When she hears the hum of a car engine outside, she’s on her feet before car doors slam and slow, heavy footsteps sound on the porch stairs. She throws her novel aside and runs to the door on bare feet, flinging it open.

 

She freezes.

 

Even in the low porchlight, she can see how awful they look, both of them pale and wan and drooping with weariness. They’re supporting each other up the stairs, neither seeming really capable of holding their own weight, and Laura moans low in her throat at the exhaustion in their eyes, the dark circles beneath them.

 

But they look up at her, and Natasha’s eyes soften, and Clint’s lips twitch up in a smile. “Hey, gorgeous,” he says, his voice a low, hoarse rasp, and Laura chokes out a sob, pushing toward them and wrapping her arms around them both, desperate to feel them in her arms, real and steady and solid.

 

Warm arms come around her and she lets her head fall forward, into the space between Clint’s shoulder and Natasha’s. Slim fingers slip into her hair and she recognizes Natasha’s touch, even as Clint’s warm hand curves against the small of her back, pulling her closer, and for a few moments they simply stand like that, frozen in the embrace, Laura shaking but too overwhelmed to really even cry.

 

By the time she lifts her head, she feels drained, as if she’s cried for hours, even though barely a few tears left her eyes. Natasha’s eyes are wet as well, but Clint’s are dry, like he’s emotionally exhausted to a point past tears. “Come inside,” Laura whispers, and they nod in unison.

 

They follow her up the stairs without protest, a slow, halting process that makes Laura slow her steps instinctively, realizing that they must be hurt, somewhere that she can’t see, and it makes her heart ache. She pauses in the hallway, hesitating as she looks at Natasha, not wanting to push, but needing her, despite the boundaries they’ve been so carefully constructing over the past three years. “Tasha,” she whispers, uncertain.

 

Natasha steps forward, cups Laura’s face in hands that are bandaged down to the fingers. Her range of motion is clumsy, but her touch is sure, and her lips press to Laura’s for the first time in years. Laura shudders into the kiss, curling her fingers into the hem of Natasha’s jacket, and Natasha pulls her closer, drinking in Laura’s mouth like she’s drowning.

 

When they part, Natasha is gasping, and Laura is shaking like a leaf in the wind. “Please,” Natasha whispers. “Please don’t ask me to go.”

 

Emotion bubbles up in Laura’s very soul, and she strokes Natasha’s hair back from her face, her hands shaking with the motion. “Never,” she whispers back. “I never could.”

 

They go to bed.

 

Clothing comes off slowly, Laura doing most of the work, as Clint and Natasha’s hands are bandaged, linen wrappings that cover their fingers and show faint splotches of red at the nails, and she shudders to think what might be under them. Two of Clint’s fingers are broken, splinted in place beneath his bandages, and Laura kisses those knuckles and sees his faint smile. When she takes his jacket and shirt off it reveals dark, vivid bruising around his throat, and she feels her stomach clench as the cause of his hoarse voice becomes horrifyingly clear. She touches her fingertips to the bruises and he doesn’t so much as flinch under her hands, just turns his face and kisses her fingertips.

 

Skin, and skin, and more skin, covered in bandages and bruises and welts. Laura’s fingers tremble as she touches the bandages over Natasha’s ribs, and Natasha curls her linen-wrapped hands around Laura’s and pulls her down against her, her lips closing over Laura’s once more. She feels strangely vulnerable in her unmarked skin, and wishes she could take some of their pain away, but Clint’s lips run over her shoulders and back and down, down between her legs with such reverence that she starts shaking.

 

Once she starts trembling, she can’t stop. They bracket her between their bodies, Natasha against her front and Clint against her back, and Laura feels like she should be comforting _them_ , this is stupid, this is backwards. She tries to say that out loud, but it comes out as a jumbled pile of words that ends with “I love you, I love you, I love you,” and Clint cups her jaw and turns her face to kiss her, heedless of the tears tracking down her cheeks. He presses into her so gently her heart aches, and when Natasha kisses her, she comes apart.

 

Afterwards, they lay curled together, sweat drying on their skin, and Laura’s heart is pounding in her chest. She lies on her side, her forehead tucked against Natasha’s and Clint spooned comfortably against her back, close enough that she can feel his pulse against her skin, and she strokes Natasha’s hair back, revelling at the closeness of her and hating the knowledge that it won’t last, that if Natasha was any less desperate for closeness and a tender touch that this wouldn’t have happened.

 

As if reading her thoughts, Natasha smiles, soft and slow and sated, and leans forward to kiss Laura’s nose. “Hey,” she says. “Stop thinking so loud.”

 

Laura laughs, wet and tearful, because she can’t _not_. “You stop,” she says.

 

“Both of you stop,” Clint rasps. “I’m trying to sleep.” His bandaged hand leaves Laura’s hip, reaching across her to settle on the curve of Natasha’s waist, and Natasha’s gaze flickers over Laura’s shoulder at him, something silent and deep passing between them that Laura can’t read, and doesn’t want to intrude on.

 

Laura ghosts her fingers over Clint’s arm and covers his hand where it rests on Natasha’s waist. “Stay?” she whispers. “Just for tonight?”

 

Natasha gazes at her, her green eyes heavy with emotion, and for a moment Laura thinks she’ll leave, gather her clothes and go to her usual place in the guest room instead, and she wants to protest before Natasha can even say it. But then Natasha nods, slowly, and shifts minutely closer, her forehead tilting forward to rest against Laura’s. “Okay,” she murmurs, not a resignation so much as a sigh.

 

Wrapped in love and secure in the feeling of their pulses beating strong and sure and alive against her skin, Laura closes her eyes, and her heart soars.

 

**2015**

 

By the time she made it back to the farmhouse, the rain had soaked through Natasha’s clothing and left her shivering. She jogged up the path to the house, mounting the porch steps and sighing in relief as the roof closed over her, blocking off the chilly rain.

 

The door opened before she could reach for the handle, revealing Laura and a large, fluffy towel. “You are insane,” she said flatly, tossing the towel over Natasha’s head and shoulders and setting to rubbing her down as if she were Cooper or Lila. “That can’t have been fun.”

 

“Not really,” Natasha admitted, shivering and leaning a bit shamelessly into the friction of Laura’s hands. “But I need the exercise.”

 

“I think your physique can survive a few rest days,” Laura said dryly.

 

“Not the way you feed me,” Natasha retorted, and Laura laughed, stepping back to let her inside. Natasha followed her in, immediately bending to pick at the mud-stiffened knots of her sneakers.

 

When she straightened again, standing on the welcome mat in her wet socks, Laura was peering past her through the still-open door, squinting into the rain. “Where are Clint and Wanda?”

 

Natasha tugged the towel more tightly around her shoulders. “Wanda asked for some time to talk to Clint.”

 

Laura frowned, but let Natasha slip past her into the house. “Out in the rain?” she asked, her voice skeptical as she let the door close.

 

“Apparently it was important.” Natasha glanced around the empty living room. “Where are the kids?”

 

“Lila’s sleeping off her last cup of chamomile, Cooper’s playing in his room, and Nate’s napping,” Laura said, ticking the names off on her fingers.

 

Natasha raised her eyebrows, not seeing any sign of Nate’s usual sleeping spots. “Where?”

 

“In the pack-n-play in his own nursery, believe it or not,” Laura said with a faint grin.

 

“Really?” That took her by surprise. Nate’s crib was still in Clint and Laura’s room, and they barely ever made much fuss over the nursery before the kid was ready to actually sleep in it. If the number of times Nate still woke up in the night to nurse was any indication, they were nowhere near that point. “Why?”

 

“There’s something creaky going on with one of the legs of the crib, it’s making me nervous.” Laura shrugged. “I don’t want the baby sleeping in it until Clint takes a look at it.”

 

Natasha mock-winced. “You think that’ll make it safer? He’s a disaster with a toolbox.”

 

Laura shot her an amused look. “You want to shower in the kids’ bathroom, or in the wonderful shower that disaster built us?”

 

The wince at the idea of using the shower Lila had now thrown up in twice wasn’t feigned. “He may have gotten better,” she allowed, and Laura laughed, gesturing her up the stairs. Natasha grinned back and headed up, pausing briefly to greet a now much-cleaner Cooper before padding down the hall in her wet socks to Clint and Laura’s room, not breaking stride as she made right for the master bathroom and turning on the shower.

 

Hot water jetted out immediately to meet her waiting hand, the pressure consistent and strong, and Natasha mentally apologized to Clint. Master plumber he was not, but when he set out to install a shower, there was no denying he did it well. She peeled off her wet clothes, dropping them to the bathmat and stepping into the shower. She sighed with pleasure as the hot water hit her, soothing the lingering chill from her bones.

 

She tugged the curtain closed, just as the bathroom door opened. “I brought you a dry towel,” Laura said, and then, “Nat, wet clothes on the floor? Really?”

 

Her voice hovered so close to the edge of a whine that Natasha couldn’t help a chagrined smile. “Sorry.”

 

The sound of wet clothes being gathered up and plunked unceremoniously into the sink was audible through the curtain. “I forgive you,” Laura said. There was a clink as the toilet lid closed, followed by a creak of a person’s weight settling on the plastic lid. “So.”

 

“So, what?” Natasha closed her eyes, tilting her head back and letting the water rush over her, plastering her hair against her scalp and neck. This was an amazing shower. It was possible she’d never get out. She’d have to resign as an Avenger. It might be worth it, she thought, and smiled into the spray.

 

“You tell me what,” Laura said. “You used to think and talk about all sorts of things while you were in the shower. Don’t tell me you’ve become one of those boring shower thinkers.”

 

“You caught me,” Natasha said, not opening her eyes. “It’s all Roth IRAs and spreadsheets and 1099 forms in here.”

 

Laura laughed. “Forget dating superheroes, Nat,” she said. “We need to hook you up with an accountant. With that kind of talk, you’d lure him right into bed.”

 

“Where I’m sure we’d find we were so compatible,” Natasha deadpanned, just to keep Laura laughing. “I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking of anything except hot water.”

 

“Mm,” Laura said. “You can thank Clint for that, he fixed the heater back in May after everything with Ultron. It had been running out too quickly.”

 

“I remember,” Natasha said, feeling a twinge of embarrassed regret at the memory of that awkward conversation with Bruce, vulnerable in her bathrobe and with her most horrifying nightmares still playing in her mind. She shook her head to clear the memory away. “Does Clint still wear those ridiculous jeans when he’s doing home improvement projects?”

 

“His _fuck me I’m the handyman_ pants?” Laura asked, the grin plain in her voice. “He does indeed. Not that I complain.”

 

Natasha couldn’t quite blame her. The appeal of Clint Barton in jeans that hung on his hips and hugged his backside wasn’t quite as attractive as Clint Barton in tac gear shooting an explosive arrow into the rotor of an enemy combatant’s helicopter, but it was close. She cleared her throat. “He did a good job.”

 

“And you haven’t even explored the shower head settings,” Laura said, a teasing lilt in her tone.

 

Natasha opened her mouth to retort to that, but then shivered in the sudden gust of cool air as the bathroom door opened. “Hey,” Laura said, a smile curving around the word that meant she could only be talking to Clint.

 

“Hey.” There was a soft sound of a kiss, followed by a much less soft jab of fingers against the shower curtain. “Nat,” Clint said, almost a whine. “You’re in my shower.”

 

“Tough,” Natasha said, and then frowned. “Where’s Wanda?”

 

“Wrapped in a towel and sitting with Nate for a bit,” Clint said, his voice suddenly much gentler, and Natasha felt a jolt at the change. “After I made her promise to take a hot shower after fifteen minutes so that she doesn’t catch cold, enhanced or not. Laura, stop looking at me like that, we’ve got company.”

 

“I wasn’t,” Laura said defensively, in a voice that clearly said she was. Natasha grinned. She knew exactly which look she was denying; Laura Barton had a particular weakness for people--her husband especially--being parental.

 

“Right,” Clint said wryly. “Anyway, that means I only have fifteen minutes to shower before my _un_ enhanced immune system gets screwed over by my asshole best friend taking me for runs in the rain.” He poked the shower curtain again. “So get out of my shower, asshole best friend.”

 

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Like hell I’m getting out of here,” she said, and then shrugged. It wasn’t like they hadn’t shared showers before, even after they stopped sleeping together. “Just get in, if you’re going to be such a baby about it.”

 

There was the distinct sound of a high-five--Natasha rolled her eyes again, but more fondly this time--followed by a wet thunk of clothes into the sink and a tug at the shower curtain. She braced herself for the cool air, closing her eyes as Clint slipped into the shower with her and then pulled the curtain closed again. She sighed as the warm air was once again sealed inside the shower.

 

Something of her earlier pleasure with the water pressure must have still showed on her face, because Clint made a pleased, self-satisfied sound. “Ha,” he said. “Can I fix a shower, or can I fix a shower?”

 

Natasha opened her eyes again just so that she could roll them at him again.

 

“The gloating isn’t really your most attractive feature, dear,” Laura said dryly.

 

“Sorry, honey,” Clint drawled. “You wanted classy, you should have married up, not down.”

 

“I rather thought I had,” Laura said dryly, and that could have so many layers to it that Natasha didn’t even bother trying to pull it apart.

 

Clint seemed to agree, declining a reply in favor of taking Natasha gently by the shoulders and steering her to one side to give himself more access to the water. She made a face at him, but let him move her, feeling her skin jump and shiver under his hands, still cool from the rain.

 

“Was Wanda okay?” she asked, letting her eyes drift rather less than platonically over his shoulders and chest. He tilted his head back into the spray, exposing his throat, and Natasha pulled her gaze sharply back to the level of his collarbone before it could wander any lower.

 

Clint took a quiet moment, his face thoughtful and relaxed. “She will be,” he said finally. “She said some things she thought needed saying, and I think she let some of the anger she’s been carrying around with her come a little looser.” He shrugged. “Her shoulders looked a little lighter, at least, when we headed home. I think she’ll sleep easier tonight.” He opened his eyes, glancing at the shower curtain. “Laura, stop that.”

 

“Didn’t realize you’d graduated to x-ray vision, Hawkeye,” Laura said, a touch guiltily. She’d been giving him what she suspected was a similar look, though likely for different reasons. She wasn’t sure why, but she just never seemed to get tired of Clint Barton surprising her. “How much longer do you think she’ll stay?”

 

He shrugged. “Not much longer,” he guessed. “A night, maybe two. She’ll come back to visit, but I don’t think she needs to be here anymore. Not like she did.”

 

Natasha frowned. “Maybe I should head back, too,” she said, surprising herself at the reluctance that came out in the words. “I’ve been away a while.”

 

Outside in the bathroom, Laura made an unhappy sound. “You can’t go back yet,” she said, and then sucked in a breath, as if she hadn’t meant to say that. Natasha resisted the urge to stick her head out of the shower to see what Laura’s face showed, but then realized she didn’t have to--everything in Laura’s voice was written clear only inches from her on Clint’s face, disappointment and regret and hesitation and sadness.

 

They stood in silence for a moment, an almost uncomfortable tableau, and then Clint cleared his throat, running a hand through his wet hair. “Laura’s right,” he said. “You can’t leave now, not while Lila’s still sick and cranky, she’ll pout for days.” He smoothed the pain from his face with an assassin’s grace, replacing it with pleading eyes. “You wouldn’t do that to us, would you?”

 

It was an excuse, and a horribly flimsy one, and Natasha refused to acknowledge the ramifications of latching instantly onto it. “Even I’m not that heartless,” she said, not even needing to force the teasing lightness into her voice. “If you’re that desperate to keep the kid-adult ratio in your favor, I can stick around a bit longer.” She paused. “But no more three a.m. diapers.”

 

Clint snorted. “Like you were doing them anyway,” he said, but his eyes were smiling.

 

“Good,” Natasha said. And then, because she was selfish and greedy and couldn’t _not_ , she plucked Laura’s shampoo off the shelf and pushed it into his hand. “Now if that’s all figured out and you’re still determined to invade my shower, at least make yourself useful and wash my hair.”

 

She turned her back, but not before catching the grin that glinted into his eyes. “Darling,” he said, gathering her hair back with fingers that danced across the nape of her neck and made goosebumps ripple across her skin, “it would be my genuine pleasure.”

 

His voice brushed low and smoky over her shoulders, and Natasha knew, with a clench in her belly, that even if the water had been freezing, that she still would have flushed all the way down to her toes.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: canon-typical violence, reference to torture, torture-induced injuries (nothing explicit), non-explicit sexual content. Also shameless pre-Civil War speculation, which isn't a trigger so much as my blatant Team-Cap-ness being hugely obvious.
> 
> This was a tricky one to write, as we're getting closer to _Avengers_ MCU canon. You can expect more Feelings Stuff as we keep going, especially since the next chapter will be dealing with _Avengers_ and its fallout for our loving trio. So, um. Prepare for those feels.
> 
> Thank you for your ongoing comments and kudos and likes--they always make me smile! Shout-outs to [Deb](http://debz0rz.tumblr.com) for her proofreading, [isjustprogress](http://isjustprogress.tumblr.com) for casually alternating between making me smile with her love and support and making me yell at her for super-depressing headcanons and fic ideas, and [nathanielbarton](http://nathanielbarton.tumblr.com) for the [amazing gifset](http://nathanielbarton.tumblr.com/post/138605449926/nor-need-we-power-or-splendor-chapter-13-by) for the last chapter. 
> 
> Questions? Comments? Visit me [on tumblr](http://geniusorinsanity.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Also, for those of you interested: [Clint's handyman pants](http://40.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mchti1Mcd31rylfcco1_500.jpg). I'll leave y'all to your bunks.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FEELINGS AHOY.
> 
> See the end of chapter notes for trigger warnings and notes.

**2015**

 

Clean and dressed after the shower soothed the chill of the summer rain from her skin, Natasha went downstairs to help Laura with dinner while Clint dug out his toolbox to examine the wiggly leg of Nate’s crib. The shower turned on again upstairs as Natasha was dicing an onion, and she glanced up at the ceiling. “Do you think that’s Wanda?”

 

“I assume so, unless Clint decided to have round two in the kids’ bathroom.” Laura peered into the fridge, gathering vegetables into her arms. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, and Natasha smiled. Only Laura could apply the same focus to picking vegetables to stir-fry as she did to bandaging scrapes and mediating sibling conflicts. Laura straightened up, nudging the fridge closed with her hip. “What do you think,” she said. “Hearts of palm, yes or no?”

 

Natasha shook her head. “I’d leave them out,” she said. “Kind of an acquired taste; no telling if Wanda likes them or not.”

 

Laura hummed her agreement, setting her armful down and taking out a knife and cutting board.

 

She set to calmly peeling and chopping carrots, her expression relaxed and easy, as if often was in the kitchen. Natasha watched her out of the corner of her eye, taking in the subtle shifting of the tendons under Laura’s skin as she cut, the even, steady grip of her fingers on her knife. The kitchen lights glinted gently on the white gold of her wedding band, the soft metal worn and scratched from years of rough love and none-too gentle handling of art supplies and farm tools.

 

In the early days of their relationship, Natasha would spend what felt like hours looking at Laura’s hands, marveling at their strength and softness. These were hands that had never taken a knife to anything but vegetables, that had never shot a gun, that had never spilled someone else’s blood. They were the hands of someone who had been touched gently and who had grown to touch others with the same kindness, hands that didn’t itch for a weapon or yearn to be restrained at night for fear they’d tear their lovers’ hearts from their chests.

 

But even now, so many years later, Laura’s hands still captivated her. They had character, those hands--the writer’s callous on her ring finger where she rested pens and pencils and paintbrushes, the nails she kept trimmed because anything else was too much work, too likely to snag on zippers or snaps or braided hair, the ever-present splotches of color from paint or glitter or ink. They were good hands, strong hands, strong because they were tender first and dangerous second, in a way that Natasha’s and even Clint’s weren’t, could never really be.

 

“Nat?”

 

She startled, glancing up at Laura, who looked back at her with a vaguely amused expression. “You’re slicing into your cutting board,” Laura said, almost apologetically. “You seem to have run out of broccoli.”

 

Natasha flushed. “I was distracted,” she admitted.

 

Laura smiled. “By?”

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Natasha said, teasing to cover her embarrassment at being caught. Some spy, she thought, and spared a moment to hope viciously that her old handlers were rolling in their graves.

 

Not that she’d given them graves.

 

A soft, knowing look flickered into Laura’s warm brown eyes, but she didn’t push. “Well, I won’t press you, but I _will_ boot you out of my kitchen if you keep attacking my innocent cutting boards.”

 

Natasha pretended to consider that. “Fair enough,” she said. She reached for another head of broccoli, catching the gleam of Laura’s grin as she set to cutting it.

 

“Clint’s seemed better, the last few days,” Laura said, after a few minutes of companionable silence. “Compared to before. Don’t you think?”

 

“I think so.” It was strange, but Clint seemed to be brightening along with Wanda as the days went on, the shadow of worry and exhaustion lifting slowly from his eyes, the circles under them fading. His movements seemed lighter, too, smoother, less weighed down by old wounds and weary guilt. “He’s getting there, anyway.” Natasha slid her knife under a pile of chopped broccoli and tipped it into a waiting prep bowl. “That’s Clint, though, you know that. He’s always at his best when he has a project.”

 

Laura cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t think he’d be happy to hear you call Wanda a project,” she said. “I don’t think Wanda would like it much, either.”

 

“That’s not what I meant.” Natasha took the weight off a large block of tofu and set to cutting it into bite-sized chunks. “Wanda’s not a project, but helping her? Making her feel safe and welcome, helping her deal with grief?” She shrugged. “Sounds like a Clint Barton project to me.”

 

“Mm,” Laura said thoughtfully. Her brow furrowed as she leaned down to focus on the garlic she was mincing, and Natasha made a mental note to check the date of Laura’s glasses prescription in the file box in the study and send her to the eye doctor to get a new one if it was out of date. “Is it bad if that worries me a bit?”

 

Natasha frowned, putting aside her concern about Laura’s squinting for the moment. “What do you mean?”

 

Laura put her knife down, the lines around her eyes, usually only visible when she smiled, were a little deeper than usual. “There aren’t always projects here,” she said, a quiet insecurity in her voice that Natasha rarely heard. “Not big ones, not the way Clint thinks of projects. Sure, the kids are always busy, and something is always broken or leaking or loose, but I just worry…” Her cheek hollowed, a sure sign she was chewing on it, and Natasha waited, patient. “I guess I worry that he’ll fade away here,” Laura said finally. Her voice sounded heavy, as if it took an effort to get the words out. “That he’ll lose that spark, that energy--everything that makes him _Clint_ , you know?”

 

She sounded miserable at the idea, and Natasha felt a surge of overwhelming affection; stunned, as she so often was, by the sheer depth of the love in Laura’s heart. “Laura,” she said. “This place…” She gestured around the kitchen with the hand not holding her knife, but she meant the farm itself, from the sweet-smelling cornfields to the creaky, well-loved floorboards. “This has always been a healing place, a place that makes people better. Clint’s never been an exception to that. He needs to be working, to be moving, but he’s never been happier than he is here.”

 

She pushed her hair back, quieting. “I know things have been rough for him lately, and I don’t know if it’s Pietro or getting older or what. But he’ll bounce back. He always does. It’s why we--” She broke off, catching herself on _love him_ , because she didn’t believe in that sort of talk, and even if she did, she’d long since given up her right to use it with Laura.

 

But Laura knew her, had always known her too well, and her expression was gentle as she looked at Natasha. “Yes,” she said, her voice a gentle murmur, clearly knowing what Natasha’s words would have been. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

 

**2012**

 

The worst phone call of Laura’s life comes on a rainy Saturday night in May.

 

She has Lila on her hip while she supervises Cooper’s timed toothbrushing, because he’s six and on an argumentative, cranky, _you can’t make me brush them_ streak, and she almost misses the call that comes through on her cell. She’d ignore it, normally, but the ringtone is the special one that only comes with Natasha’s calls. Nat’s been on a job in Russia for the better part of a month, and she wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important, so she sighs.

 

“You keep brushing until that timer goes off, or you’re off dessert for a week,” she tells Cooper firmly, and hoists Lila more securely onto her hip as she hurries into the bedroom, picking up the phone just before the ringtone ends and sends the call to voicemail. “Nat?”

 

“Laura.”

 

Natasha’s voice is low and hollow, quivering with uncertainty, and Laura’s knees almost buckle. She puts Lila down on her bed and brings her other hand up to support her grip on her phone before her shaking fingers drop it. “What is it?”

 

“Clint’s--” Natasha breaks off, and Laura’s heart stops in her chest. _No_ , she thinks, wild, _no, not like this, not so far away, he was supposed to fix the sink next week--_ “Clint’s been compromised.”

 

It’s not what she’s expecting, and she doesn’t know what it means, but whatever _compromised_ is, it’s not _dead_. Still, her voice sounds small and faint when she manages, “What?” She swallows hard, straightening her knees against the trembling that threatens to tip her back onto the bed with Lila. “What does that mean?”

 

“He’s under some kind of control,” Natasha tells her, and she sounds _exhausted_ , utterly weary. Laura wonders, fleetingly, how long she’s been awake. “And I’m still getting information, a lot of it is classified. But it looks like--it looks like he’s helping the person who just blew up the SHIELD research base Clint’s been securing.”

 

“ _What_?” Laura’s voice rises before she can control it, and Lila, bouncing on the bed and talking happily to herself, stops jumping and stares at her. Laura forces herself to smile and cups Lila’s cheek gently, hoping her expression looks somewhat reassuring, and then takes a trembling breath, giving up on standing and sitting down on the edge of the bed. Lila, soothed, resumes her bouncing. “Natasha, he wouldn’t do that, that’s not him. Something’s going on.”

 

“I know, Laura.” There’s a scuffling sound that Laura can’t identify, and then Natasha sighs. “Fury thinks the guy used some kind of mind control on him, that he’s not really _Clint_.”

 

Laura bites her tongue. Ten years ago, she would have laughed at the very idea of mind control. But she has an ex-lover--ex-wife?--who’s an ex because of mind control. She doesn’t doubt anymore. “You have to get him back, Nat.”

 

“I don’t know where he is,” Natasha says, and she sounds angry about it.

 

“I thought you had those trackers--”

 

“He disabled it,” Natasha says flatly. “Or someone else did.”

 

Laura’s stomach turns, and she has to press her lips together against a surge of nausea. Clint’s shown her the small, barely-there scar on his upper thigh where the SHIELD tracker had been embedded when he joined, and had casually remarked that it was state of the art, would have to be cut out in order to be disabled. She closes her eyes, taking deep breaths through her nose.

 

“Laura?” Natasha’s voice is tight with strained concern. “I want to give you space, but I’m kind of short on time here.”  


“I’m sorry.” She takes another breath. “Are you tracking him down some other way? Where are you?”

 

“On my way to fucking India,” Natasha says, annoyance and barely-suppressed fury dripping from the words. “To recruit an expert in gamma radiation who also happens to mutate into a giant chaos rage monster when he’s angry.”

 

“Sounds like my three-year-old,” Laura mutters without thinking. Lila, bouncing, beams at her, and Laura nudges her gently onto her bottom. Lila goes down, shrieking with laughter, and Laura smiles through the tears threatening the corners of her eyes. “Why are you going to India?”

 

“Orders.” She takes an audible breath. “I think they’re worried I’m too close to Clint to--”

  
She breaks off, but Laura hears what she doesn’t say. Her heart twists in her chest. “They can’t,” she says, panic firing through her veins. “Natasha, they _can’t_ , it’s not his fault, if this man’s controlling him somehow--”

 

“I know, Laura, but Clint’s--he’s a high ranking agent. He knows....He knows security systems, clearance codes. If anyone could coordinate an attack on SHIELD using materials he could find in a drugstore, it would be Clint. I don’t know if Fury can take that risk.”

 

Laura chews on her tongue. Her fingers, clutched around her phone, feel cold. “Nat,” she whispers. “You can’t let them. You have to bring him home. Promise me.”

 

“Laura--”

 

“ _Promise me_ , Natasha,” she says, fierce and suddenly furious at the reticence in Natasha’s voice. “You owe me that much. Bring him home, and bring him home alive.”

 

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line, the silence heavy and tense. And then Natasha sighs. “I’ll bring him home, Laura,” she says. “As safe as I can manage.”

 

“That’s not what I asked,” Laura argues. It’s petulant, she knows, but this is _Clint_ \--Clint her husband, Clint the father of her children, Clint the only partner she has left. “Natasha, please.”

 

“I can’t let him take out SHIELD, Laur,” Natasha says, every word heavy. “He’ll never forgive me.”

 

Laura says nothing, can’t make herself speak, because she knows, she _knows_ , that Natasha is right. For all that Clint is kind and loving and generous, she knows that he’s dangerous, that his sharp, calculating mind and long-honed skills could be deadly in the wrong hands--the very hands that seem to be holding Clint by strange strings now.

 

But still. But still. “Mind control can be broken,” she whispers. “You know that better than anyone.”

 

Natasha takes in a sharp breath, and then goes silent. “This isn’t Red Room brainwashing, Laura,” she says finally, but reluctant resignation hangs on the words, and Laura knows she’s won.

 

“You’re a smart woman, Tasha,” Laura says. “You’ll think of something.”

 

Natasha laughs, soft and a touch bitter. “I’ll have to,” she says. Her tone drops then, soft and tense. “There’s something you need to do, too,” she says.

 

Laura swallows. “What?”

 

“Leave the house,” Natasha says, simply. “Pack a few bags, take the kids, and just go. Not to your parents’ place--somewhere where Clint wouldn’t think to look for you.”

 

A sudden chill shoots through Laura’s veins. “Why?”

 

“The person who’s got him, Laura, he has certain...It seems like he has certain abilities, and he doesn’t use them for good.” Natasha sounds hesitant. “I don’t know exactly how he’s controlling Clint, but if he can get inside his head…” There’s an audible swallow. “I can’t focus on getting him back if I’m worried about you. Just...Just do it, okay?”

 

Her voice is almost pleading, and Laura could never resist that tone from her, not the way it sounds now, tinged with desperation and worry. “I’ll get the kids packed,” she promises. “We’ll go to--”

 

“Don’t tell me, either,” Natasha says, a touch sharply. “And make sure you turn the location off on your phone.”

 

Laura flinches. She wouldn’t have thought of that. “Okay,” she says. Some of her fear for Clint dissipates, replaced by lists and logistics and half-frantic plans, and she wonders if Natasha knew that would happen. “Nat,” she says, and then cuts herself off. She hesitates, just a moment, and then pushes ahead. “I love you. Both of you.”

 

Natasha goes quiet. Her voice, when she speaks again, is soft. “I know,” she says. “Be careful, Laura.”

 

The line goes dead, and Laura closes her eyes, trying to control the fluttering of her pulse. She takes slow, deep breath, relaxing into the rocking of the bed as Lila bounces lightly. She pretends she’s at sea, rocking on a boat, somewhere peaceful and safe.

 

“Mommy?”

 

Cooper’s voice takes her out of the momentary fantasy. She opens her eyes and sits up, pushing her hair back. Cooper stands in the doorway, his toothbrush still in his hand. “My timer went off,” he said. “I heard you on the phone. Are we gonna go somewhere?”

 

“Yes,” Laura says, feeling suddenly exhausted. “Yeah, honey, we’re going somewhere.”

 

Cooper pads into the room and climbs up on the bed with them. “Where?” he asks curiously.

 

Lila stops bouncing and looks brightly at Laura. “Disney!” she chirps. “Disney!”

 

“No, baby, not Disney,” Laura says, and then stops, considering it for a few seconds before dismissing the notion. It’s not a _bad_ idea, since it’s not somewhere anyone would think to look for them, but the thought of negotiating two children in a theme park while worrying about her mind-controlled husband being potentially murdered by her reluctant ex-wife is too much to handle. “Somewhere else.”

 

“Where?” Cooper asks again.

 

“It’s going to be a surprise,” Laura decides, and climbs to her feet. “Come on,” she says, forcing lightness into her voice. “Let’s go pack some bags, and we’ll have bedtime in the car. When you wake up, we’ll be in a brand-new place. It’ll be an adventure.”

 

Cooper’s face brightens. “Adventures are cool,” he says. “Can I bring my pirate sword?”

 

“You can bring whatever you want,” Laura says. And then, impulsively, she reaches out and pulls both of her children into her arms, tugging them close and clinging a little more tightly than she normally would.

 

Her arm around his shoulders, Cooper wriggles impatiently. “ _Mom_ ,” he says. “I gotta _pack_.”

 

Laura lets him go. “Sorry, baby,” she says. “Go on. Pack your backpack, and then I’ll bring you a bag for some clothes.” She climbs to her feet, and holds out her arms for Lila. “Come on, munchkin. You and me’ll pack together.”

 

Lila climbs up, bounces across the bed, and lets Laura scoop her up. “And then Disney?” she asks, hopeful. “In da car?”

 

“Disney in the car,” Laura agrees. “And coffee.”

 

Lila makes a face. “No coffee,” she says. “Yuck.”

 

“Not for you,” Laura tells her. “Coffee for Mommy.”

 

A lot of coffee, she thinks, weariness and logistics already taking over her mind, pushing away the fear.

 

It’s going to be a long night.

 

**2015**

 

“You’re leaving?” Lila asked, staring at Wanda with wide, tear-filled eyes.

 

Clint shot Natasha a pointed, _I told you so_ look. She didn’t roll her eyes at him, but he suspected it was only because they were at the table with the kids.

 

Laura, for her part, gave Clint a firmly raised eyebrow before turning to Lila. “Sweetheart,” she said, gently patient. “You knew Wanda wasn’t coming to stay with us forever.”

 

“But…” Lila’s lower lip trembled. “How come you have to go?”

 

Wanda leaned forward, folding her arms on the table. “I came here because I was sad, little one,” she said softly. “And I needed to come somewhere I could feel safe and not be so sad anymore. Now I am feeling better, and it is time for me to go home.”

 

“But you just got here,” Cooper protested.

 

“I know.” Wanda looked at him, her eyes soft. “But I will come back and visit. I promise.”

 

“But--” Cooper began.

 

Laura poked Clint with her foot under the table, and he took the hint. “Guys,” he said, pushing his empty bowl aside and mimicking Wanda’s leaning posture. “I know you hate it when people you like leave. But Wanda’s an Avenger, just like Auntie Nat. And that means she can’t stay here all the time, even if she wishes she could.”

 

He gave Wanda a significant look. Bright girl that she was, she caught on quick. “Your father is right,” she said, nodding. “I like it here very much, and I wish that I could stay. But the team needs me to be there to help them.”

 

“Just like you do with your baseball team, buddy,” Clint said, nudging Cooper’s shoulder gently. “If your team needs you, you have to be there, even if you’d want to be somewhere else.”

 

“Like when I wanted to go to a party but had to go to my dance recital?” Lila asked. Disappointment was still clear on her face, but it was warring with reluctant acknowledgment.

 

“Exactly like that,” Laura agreed. She looked at Wanda. “When do you think you’ll go?”

 

“That depends on Clint,” Wanda said, turning to him.

 

Clint leaned back in his chair, draping one arm over the back of Cooper’s and resting his hand on the top of Cooper’s head, ruffling his hair gently to bring a small smile to his son’s pouting face. “I could fly you back in the morning,” he said, calculating flight time back to New York. “Spend a bit of time catching up with Steve and get back here by dinner.” He glanced to Natasha. “You want to come?”

 

He tried to ask it casually, but he knew some of his internal reluctance came out in his voice. Flying Wanda back to New York would be an all-too-convenient excuse for Natasha to stay behind with them. He wanted, selfishly and furiously, for her to stay here, with his wife and his kids, where she belonged. But she belonged with the Avengers, too, was as much a part of that team as she was a part of his family, and he didn’t have any right to keep her away from that.

 

Natasha looked as torn as he felt, though, and he couldn’t help the slight gratified satisfaction that tingled through him at that. “I might fly back with you,” she said slowly. “I’ll check in, see how things are going, and make my call after that.”

 

“Auntie Nat!” Lila cried, tears rushing back into her voice. “You can’t leave yet! You promised you’d finish reading my book to me!”

 

“And you said you were gonna come to my baseball game next week!” Cooper added, his eyes as suddenly tearful as his sisters, despite his usual protests that he was nine now, and too old for things like crying.

 

Natasha seemed a bit taken aback by the sudden backlash, and glanced at Clint, as if for backup. He just arched an eyebrow back at her, an intentionally pointed _what can you do?_ , and she sighed. “Tell you what,” she said, resignation clear in her voice. “I’ll leave my stuff here, and even if they need me there, I’ll have to at least come back to get my bag. That means we’ll have at least a bit more time, okay?”

 

Cooper and Lila exchanged glances, their faces identical expressions of dissatisfied calculation as they communicated silently in the way that only siblings could. Clint remembered looking at Barney like that when they were kids, and Laura’s fond, affectionate smile as she gazed at them reflected a similar memory--though, Clint suspected, one with much less trauma. “Okay,” Cooper said after a long moment, turning back to Natasha. “As long as you come back.”

 

“I will,” Natasha promised.

 

Laura frowned. “Not great for the planet,” she remarked, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. “Doing two round trips so close together.”

 

Clint squashed down his indignant confusion, keeping it off his face with years of long practice at subterfuge. What was she doing? Trying to convince Nat to leave sooner? “Stark’s got our Quinjets running all renewable reactors,” he said, managing not to frown at her. “The trees’ll be okay, Laur.”

 

She arched one brow. “What about the ones you nearly crashed into that time you miscalculated a landing?”

 

He heaved a sigh, but felt some of the tension leave him at the teasing note in her voice. “Hundreds of perfect landings over the years,” he grumbled, only half-serious. “And the one screw-up gets harped on forever.”

 

“The _one_ screw-up?” Natasha asked, her eyebrows shooting up. “Are you serious right now?”

 

“Natasha,” Laura chided, just as Cooper and Lila’s faces lit up and they leaned forward eagerly, clearly hoping for stories. “No plane crash stories in front of the children, please, I’d like for them to sleep through the night.”

 

“ _Mom_ ,” Cooper whined. “We don’t get nightmares about Dad crashing anymore!”

 

Laura smiled calmly. “Of course you don’t, sweetheart,” she agreed, climbing to her feet. “Plates to the sink, please,” she said. “Lila, you’re going to have another bath tonight. Do you want to do that now, or have some playtime first?”

 

Lila made a face. “Mommy, I had a bath last night!”

 

“You _did_ ,” Laura said brightly, as if it was the most exciting news she’d ever heard. “And tonight you get to have another one, because you’ve been sick, and I don’t want you getting into bed all covered with germs. Daddy will even change your sheets for you again,” she added, shooting Clint a pointed look.

 

Clint gave her a thumbs-up in response. He’d learned not to argue, even if he still believed that fitted sheets--especially the tiny ones made for little twin beds--were the work of the devil. “You got it,” he said. “Fresh set of princess sheets, coming up in time for bedtime.”

 

A pout tugged petulantly at Lila’s lips. “I don’t _want_ another bath,” she insisted. “Cooper doesn’t have to have a bath!”

 

“Cooper had a shower,” Laura reminded her. “After he came inside from playing in the mud with Daddy. And Auntie Nat had a shower, and Daddy had a shower, and Wanda had a shower, and Nate is going to have a bath tonight, _and_ , if Mommy is very, very lucky, _she_ will get to have a bath, too.”

 

Lila narrowed her eyes at her mother, and Clint kept his expression carefully firm, not giving away any of his immediate amusement. _Losing battle, baby_ , he thought, and after a long moment, Lila sighed grumpily. “Playtime first,” she said moodily. “And then bath, and then story.”

 

“Deal,” Laura said, with the amused satisfaction of a parent who’d gotten what they wanted in the first place. She shot Clint a conspiratorial glance, and he grinned at her.

 

Cooper and Lila cleared their plates into the kitchen as directed, and Clint shooed them both out into the living room to play.

 

“Can I help with the dishes?” Wanda asked, following Natasha into the kitchen with the empty glasses from the table. “I did not help to cook.”

 

“No, honey, you’re fine,” Laura said, rolling up the sleeves of her cardigan and starting the sink. “If you wanted to go supervise playtime, though, that would be helpful.”

 

Wanda nodded agreeably, depositing the glasses on the counter. She turned to go, and then paused, looking back at them, her eyes bright. “I want to thank you again,” she said. “For bringing me here.”

 

Something reluctantly paternal twisted in Clint’s chest, and he sternly squashed it down. “You don’t have to thank us,” he said. “We’re just glad being here helped you.”

 

Wanda smiled, a soft, sad smile that nonetheless made it to her eyes. “I think this is a good place,” she said softly. “I am glad I came.”

 

Her gaze flickered, very briefly, to Natasha, and then she smiled one more and turned to join Cooper and Lila in the living room.

 

Clint exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Good kid,” he commented.

 

It wasn’t what he really meant to say--it was far more casual, lighter, a smaller sort of statement. But he couldn’t quite fit what was spinning around his head into words--a weird, strange, almost uncomfortable jumble of feelings and ideas that seemed almost inappropriate, like he was overstepping some unseen, unspoken boundary.

 

A soft hand touched his arm, and he glanced down at Laura to find her looking up at him with tender eyes, warm in the way they always were when she caught him looking particularly parental. “Stop that,” he said, trying to sound stern. “I just said she was a good kid. That’s all.”

 

Laura’s lips quirked up at the corners. “Of course you did, honey,” she said, squeezing his arm and turning back to the sink.

 

Clint followed her, picking up a dish towel and waiting to be handed a bowl. “Then what was that look for?”

 

She batted her eyelashes sweetly at him. “I didn’t give you a look,” she said innocently.

 

“She did,” Natasha said, grinning wickedly from where she leaned against the counter on Laura’s other side, her eyes glinting. “She gave you the _when did we get a fourth kid_ look.”

 

“Is that a look?” Clint asked, confused as he took the bowl Laura gave him. “Since when is that a look?”

 

“It’s a new look,” Natasha said. “It showed up a few days ago.”

 

“Wanda showed up a few days ago,” Clint said, narrowing his eyes.

 

Natasha blinked, all innocent. “Did she?”

 

Clint resisted the urge to throw his towel at her. “So we’re at four kids now, huh?” he asked Laura. “And here I thought we were outnumbered when Nate was born.”

 

“Mm,” Laura said, passing him another bowl to dry. She shot him a conspiratorial wink as Natasha left the kitchen to go investigate the sudden shrieking giggles from the living room. “We need a third parent,” she said, half-teasing. “To even out the odds.”

 

Clint snorted. “Ain’t that the truth,” he said, drying the bowl and putting it aside. “I think our recruitment plan needs work, though. She keeps running off.”

 

“Imagine that,” she said. She turned off the sink and dried her hands, turning to loop her arms around his neck. “Maybe we need to be clearer about the benefits package,” she said, her eyes bright and twinkling. “What do you think?”

 

“I dunno,” Clint said, turning his head to kiss her wrist, breathing in the scent of her skin as he moved. “It’s been awhile since my recruitment, anyway,” he lamented, draping his arms more comfortably around her waist. “Maybe I need a refresher?”

 

Laura laughed, pulling him down for a kiss, and Clint grinned against her lips, threading the fingers of one hand into her hair.

 

Footsteps sounded on the kitchen floor. “Your kids are making Wanda build a blanket fort,” Natasha said, and then, a bit strained, “Really, guys?”

 

This time, Clint gave into temptation and threw the dish towel without lifting his face from Laura’s. He heard Natasha’s undignified squawk as it made impact, and Laura’s laughter, sweet and bright, rang in his ears.

 

**2012**

 

The world feels sharper.

 

Clint moves through the makeshift research facility on sure feet, his steps steadier than they should be. His internal clock, long honed to perfection by necessity, tells him that he hasn’t eaten in thirty-six hours, hasn’t slept in forty-eight. Despite that, his hands are steady, his mind calm.

 

If he concentrates on the sensation, he can feel a dull ache in his stomach. He doesn’t concentrate.

 

He rounds the corner to the alcove that Loki has claimed as his private space. Loki sits cross-legged on a folding table, eyes closed and face blank, his weight not even bending the cheap plastic. The scepter rests beside his hand, untouched, and Clint can hear the faint, humming song of the stone in its center. It pulses and glows as Clint approaches, and Loki’s eyes open. “Barton.”

 

“Sir.” Clint waits for further instruction to speak, and Loki makes an impatient gesture. “We secured a plane. We’ll leave for Berlin as soon as we’re fueled.”

 

Loki cocks an eyebrow. “Where did you get a plane?”

 

Clint shrugs. “Like I said, sir,” he says. “SHIELD’s got no shortage of enemies.”

 

It’s true, and he hadn’t even had to call in any favors. AIM and MODOK had sent minions and mercenaries at the first transmission of opportunity to fuck SHIELD over, and an easy round of postings to certain secure servers on the darknet had taken care of the rest. Mercenaries, scientists, and burned ex-cons have been flowing in for twenty-four hours. Clint’s got a few of the other SHIELD men on vetting--the last thing they need is an actual agent getting through their perimeter.

 

As if reading his thoughts--and maybe he was--Loki’s lip curls. “You also said Fury would be putting together a team,” he says.

 

“Yes.” Clint tries to ignore the soft song of the stone in Loki’s scepter. “The Avengers Initiative. Fury’s pet project.”

 

“So you said.” Loki regards him for a moment, and then slides smoothly down from the table. Something uncomfortable flickers across his features as his feet hit the floor, but Clint doesn’t ask questions. Loki draws himself, standing a good half foot above Clint at his full height, and Clint watches him calmly. Loki narrows his eyes, as if Clint’s gaze irritates him. “Kneel,” he says.

 

His voice is quiet, as if it’s a request and not a command, but Clint’s knees fold as if he’s been pushed. As his knees touch the concrete floor, memories tug unpleasantly at the back of his mind, of large hands on his shoulders, shoving him down and down and down. He shakes his head to clear the memory away, and when he looks up again, Loki’s lips curve into a smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. “Good,” he says, almost a purr.

 

Deep in his abdomen, in the place where Clint is not concentrating, something clenches and twists. “Sir,” he says.

 

Loki steps closer to him, close enough that Clint thinks he should be able to feel his body heat. Instead, only cold reaches him, a chill that seems to radiate from Loki’s very skin. “You’re a fascinating man, Barton,” he says softly. The words have an edge to them, honed blue like a knife so sharp. “You don’t seem like the type of man to wear a uniform, to have a master pulling your strings.” His smile broadens, curling. “What is it about SHIELD that commands your loyalty?”

 

Clint frowns. He doesn’t understand the question. “Sir,” he says slowly. “You command my loyalty.”

 

“Of course.” Loki crouches down, bringing their eyes level. His eyes blaze, the shadows under them deep and dark, and something wholly unnerving glints within them. “Not SHIELD, then. Tell me something else.” Clint furrows his brow. Loki smiles. “Some _one_ else, then? Who is it that truly commands your heart, Agent Barton?”

 

_Laura_ , Clint thinks. _Her name is Laura, and her hair is like chestnuts in sunshine, and she has the most beautiful smile and the kindest eyes. She lives on a farm in Iowa, miles away from anyone who could want to hurt her. And Cooper, he runs so fast now and he keeps growing and he’s so smart he can’t be my kid, and Lila, who looks at me like I’m a superhero and sings everything even though she doesn’t need to._

 

The stone’s music wraps around him, singing, and the image of Laura and Cooper and Lila slides forward, toward the front of his mind, resting against his lips. It pushes there, firm, pressing. He opens his mouth, and then falters. Something holds him back, tells him _no_. Screams it, really, wrapping its fingers around his throat and holding tight. Clint thinks _Laura_ again, and the pulsing swell of the scepter’s stone pulses in his head. Loki is still looking at him, his expression calm but impatience gathering at the edges of his eyes, and another bolt of nausea tugs at Clint’s belly. The song keeps swelling, growing in volume and intensity, forcing words to his lips.

 

He needs to say something, _something_ , the urge to answer feels blinding, pressing and tight in his head and throat. _Not Laura_ , the screaming voice in his mind says, _not Cooper, not Lila_. _Not them._

 

Fighting the overwhelming press and pull of the stone’s song, he puts Laura and the kids in the farm in a tiny box and shoves them to the back of his mind, as far back as he can, and then he breathes, “ _Natasha_.”

 

As soon as the word leaves his mouth, the stone’s rising song fades back to a soft, almost soothing murmur, and Clint nearly falls forward, gasping. He feels suddenly drained, bone-tired, and all but leans into the hum of the stone, letting it curl around him, sweet and slow. “Natasha,” he says again, the word coming out of him like a punch to the gut. “Agent Romanoff.”

 

Loki smiles like a knife. “How fascinating,” he says. “Tell me more.”

 

**2015**

 

Lila woke up healthy but cranky, in a bad mood as soon as she shuffled downstairs, her stuffed wolf under her arm and a pout on her face. She stomped into the kitchen in socked feet, crossed her arms over her chest, and cleared her throat loudly. “I don’t want Wanda to leave,” she announced, planting her feet on the floor and glaring at the adults in the room.

 

Laura arched one eyebrow, her hands curled around her coffee mug, and then glanced pointedly at Clint. “Dear,” she said, tilting her head toward her daughter. “If you’d like the honor?”

 

Clint gave a magnanimous shake of his head. “Be my guest, darling,” he said dryly.

 

Natasha, pacing the kitchen with Nate cooing happily in her arms, snorted a laugh.

 

Laura made a face at her, and then put her coffee mug down on the table, beckoning Lila over. Lila’s pout stayed firmly in place, but she came closer and climbed up onto Laura’s lap. Laura tucked an arm under Lila’s knees and around her shoulders to adjust her position, turning her to face her. “Lila Loo,” she said, keeping her voice patient. “We talked about this last night. Wanda has to go and learn how to be an Avenger.”

 

“Wanda’s _already_ an Avenger,” Lila said stubbornly. “Daddy said so.”

 

Across the table, Clint gave a grin that was only moderately self-deprecating. Laura didn’t glare at him, but the temptation was there. “You’re right, honey,” she said. “Wanda is an Avenger. But she needs to work with Captain America and Auntie Nat to learn all the ways to be a safe Avenger.”

 

Lila frowned. “Nuh-uh.”

 

“Yes, she does,” Laura said. Clint cocked an eyebrow at her. She ignored him. “Like when you started gymnastics, and you needed to learn how to use all of the equipment without hurting yourself.”

 

“Daddy’s an Avenger,” Lila pointed out, narrowing her eyes. “He didn’t learn how to do it safe.”

 

Laura looked at Clint, carefully keeping her exasperation off her face. Clint removed his face from his coffee mug, clearing his throat. “You’re right, baby,” he said. “I didn’t. But that’s why Mommy has to yell at me all the time for jumping off stuff. Wanda’s gonna learn how to do Avenging without falling off stuff.”

 

“It’s very important,” Natasha said, settling Nate into the crook of one arm so that she could sip from her own mug. “Because then your mom would have to yell at Daddy, and me, _and_ Wanda. And that’s a lot of work for her.”

 

Lila chewed her lower lip, her expression thoughtful. “You could stop jumping off stuff,” she suggested. “Or I could help yell.”

 

Laura muffled a snicker into the coffee she’d snuck to her lips with the hand that wasn’t securing Lila to her lap. That was her kid, all right.

 

“You’re a very good yeller,” Clint agreed, his eyes glinting with amusement for all that his expression was utterly serious. “But I don’t know if Wanda’s used to that kind of thing. I think she should learn how to be safe first, and then, if she wants, she can jump off stuff and you can yell at her.”

 

Lila frowned, clutching her wolf tighter. “Will she come back to visit?” she demanded.

 

Clint’s face softened. “Of course she will, baby.”

 

“For Thanksgiving?” she pressed.

 

Clint raised an eyebrow, glancing at Natasha. “I don’t know if Wanda celebrates Thanksgiving, sweetheart,” Natasha said gently, sitting back down at the table. “But you can invite her.”

 

“She doesn’t _have_ to celebrate it,” Lila said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “She just has to like food. _Everybody_ likes food.” She paused, and then craned her head back to look at Laura hopefully. “I’m hungry,” she said. “Can we have pancakes?”

 

Laura dropped her head onto Lila’s shoulder. “Ask Daddy,” she said. “Mommy is busy being squashed by a very heavy wolf child.”

 

“Daddy?” Lila asked, giving Clint her most endearing look.

 

Clint laughed, and climbed to his feet. “Only if you’re helping, monkey,” he said, keeping his coffee mug in one hand and scooping Lila almost effortly onto one hip with his other arm. “Let’s go.”

 

Breakfast went without any further objections to Wanda’s departure. Cooper came downstairs bleary-eyed in time to help mix blueberries into the batter, and Wanda made it down from her shower just as the first pancakes came off the pan. Lila’s lip quivered very slightly when she caught sight of the duffle bag that Wanda dropped by the front door before she took a seat at the table, but she held it together, and Laura exchanged a smile with Clint across their daughter’s head.

 

After breakfast was a different story. Natasha handed Nate to Clint and padded upstairs, coming back a few minutes later with her own bag slung over her shoulder. Lila took one look at it and burst into tears, flinging herself head-on into Natasha’s arms. Natasha caught her with a slight stagger, giving Laura a wide-eyed look. Laura, in the middle of clearing the breakfast dishes, stared back at her in equal confusion. “Lila mouse,” Natasha said, looking stricken as she adjusted her grip to keep Lila from dragging her down by the neck. “What is it, honey?”

 

“You said you weren’t _leaving_!” Lila wailed, clinging to her.

 

“I’m not!” Natasha protested, her usually unflappable calm reduced to near-distress by Lila’s sobbing.

 

Wanda gave Laura worried look. “Is she alright?”

 

“She’s five and a half,” Laura said dryly. “She has a lot of feelings. Lila, honey, Natasha’s not going, remember? She’s just going back with Daddy and Wanda to check on things.”

 

“She brought her _bag_!” Lila insisted, barely coherent around her tears.

 

“Is that what this is?” Natasha cast her eyes toward the ceiling, as if looking for strength, and then sighed. “Lila, mouse, I just want to bring my clothes back and trade them for different ones. That’s all.”

 

Lila dragged in a huge, shuddering breath, lifting her face from Natasha’s shoulder. “You p-promise?” she hiccuped.

 

“I promise, sweetheart,” Natasha said, her face collapsing into relief when Lila beamed suddenly at her, flinging her arms around her neck again.

 

Clint came back inside, still holding Nate, the jacket he’d left in his truck yesterday under one arm. He raised his eyebrows. “Jesus,” he said. “What did I miss?”

 

“Lila was being dumb,” Cooper said, sitting at the kitchen table with his cup of milk.

 

“ _Cooper_ ,” Laura said, sharp.

 

He flushed, just slightly. “Sorry, mom.”

 

Laura tilted her head back, counted silently to ten, and then looked back at the room at large. “I think it’s time for the people going on a trip to get ready to go on their trip,” she said. “Which means hugs, I think.”

 

“No, wait!” Lila yelped, wriggling her way down from Natasha’s arms. “We have to _get_ something.”

 

“Right!” Cooper exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

 

The two of them raced upstairs. Wanda looked after them, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and confusion. “Should my feelings be hurt?” she asked.

 

“I don’t think so.” Laura said, setting the rest of the dishes in the sink and then padding around the table to take Nate from Clint. “They probably want to give you something. Hi,” she told Clint, and then pushed her face into his chest.

 

He chuckled softly, wrapping his arms around her. “Sorry they’re in such a mood,” he said, kissing the top of her head. She groaned against his chest, and he rubbed her back. “You want me to take them with me? Stick ‘em in the quinjet’s lav for a few hours?”

 

“No,” she said, but the image made her laugh, which was, she suspected, his purpose anyway. She stepped away from Clint, passing Nate back and holding her arms out to Wanda, who stood by the door looking a bit uncertain. “Come here, sweetheart.”

 

A small, almost relieved smile curved across Wanda’s lips as she slipped into Laura’s arms. Laura hugged her gently, not wanting to push, but when Wanda’s arms tightened around her, the younger woman’s forehead pressing into her shoulder, Laura pressed her close. Stroking one hand through Wanda’s hair, an unconscious gesture and one she knew she used with her own children, she murmured, “You know you’re welcome back any time. Just say the word and we’ll get you here.”

 

“I know,” Wanda said, her voice slightly muffled against Laura’s shirt. She lifted her head, looking at Laura with eyes that shone bright and wet at the corners. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I haven’t--” She broke off, faltering, and swallowed visibly. “I haven’t felt like I had a home for a long time. Thank you for giving me one.”

 

Laura’s eyes stung, and she flickered her gaze up to blink back tears. “You’re welcome, honey,” she said. “It’s yours whenever you want it.”

 

Wanda gave her a watery smile. Acting on instinct, Laura smoothed her hair back. “There,” she said, almost to herself, and Wanda laughed softly.

 

Footsteps pounded on the stairs and Cooper and Lila came charging into view, papers clutched in their hands. “We got all the pictures we drew with you!” Lila exclaimed, rushing to Wanda and thrusting the sheaf of construction paper, crinkled with the weight of paint and glitter. “For you to take home!”

 

“So you can decorate your room,” Cooper added helpfully, handing her his own stack of papers, a little shyly. “You said it was a little boring.”

 

Wanda smiled, closing her hands and bending down to them. “Thank you,” she said. “These will make it perfect.”

 

“We’ll draw you more,” Lila said firmly. “Then you’ll have more for when you come back!” She looked over her shoulder. “Daddy, she has to say goodbye to Nate, too!”

 

Clint looked startled, but his smile was immediate. “You’re right, baby, she does.” He put a hand on Wanda’s shoulder, then offered her the baby. “See you later,” he said. “Not goodbye. But maybe the next time you see him, he’ll even be holding his own head up.”

 

“An important skill,” Wanda said, entirely serious, but a soft smile played around her eyes as she took Nate from Clint, cradling him in her arms with a tenderness that melted Laura’s heart. She spoke softly to him in Sokovian, rocking him, and Cooper and Lila looked on with broad smiles of their own, so like Clint’s that Laura had to blink back tears again.

 

As if sensing her emotion--and maybe, after so many years, he could--Clint put an arm around her. “We’ve got some good kids,” he said softly.

 

Laura smiled up at him. “I know.”

 

“They have good parents,” Natasha said, leaning against the counter.

 

“And a very good aunt,” Laura told her. She smiled at her. “I’m glad you’re not leaving properly yet,” she said. “I’m not really ready to say goodbye yet.”

 

Something very close to surprise flickered over Natasha’s features. And then she smiled, touching Laura’s arm. Her fingers were light, but they tingled along Laura’s skin nonetheless. “You know, I’m glad to hear that,” she said quietly. “I don’t think I’m quite ready to leave.”

 

**2012**

 

When Natasha was very small, learning her survival training at Ivan’s hands, he had made her study weather patterns and natural phenomena, the sheer, terrifying power of the planet under her feet and over her head. In Moscow’s cold, Natasha-- _Natalia_ , then, little Natalia, the Red Room’s bloodstained pearl--had been fascinated by hurricanes, at the idea of swirling winds and rain and salt-scented fury.

 

But what fascinated her most was the eye--the dead silence in the center of the storm. Natalia had closed her eyes and pictured it, wondering if it sounds like the intake of breath before a finger squeezes a trigger, or the space between heartbeats slowing under tightening hands around a place throat. She looked at pictures, at books, at newsreels, and she wondered.

 

As the dust settles over Manhattan, the Chitauri dead and unmoving in the streets, Natasha waits for the silence, but it doesn’t come.

 

Instead, the air fills with sound, of sirens and screaming and the crashing rumble of collapsing buildings and glass raining to the street below. Or maybe, Natasha thinks, too weary to really wonder about it, the sound has been there all along, and she hasn’t been listening.

 

There’s no silence in her ear, either, the comm unit buzzing with noise and energy. Thor is asking for eyes on Loki, Stark rambling about shawarma--Natasha cuts him some slack, the man just flew into a dimensional rift--the Hulk roaring. Natasha drags herself to her feet to get a visual on Loki, dropping the scepter to the ground beside the stabilizing unit and wincing as her weight distributes and puts more pressure on the ankle she’d injured on the Carrier.

 

Then the one silence she _is_ hearing catches up to her, and she freezes. “Clint,” she says, putting a hand to the comm at her ear. “Clint, what’s your status?”

 

The other voices on the line fade to quiet, and the resulting silence makes her heart stop. “Barton,” Rogers says, a commander’s voice, stern. “I need a sitrep.”

 

Nothing. Natasha stares through the shattered glass of Stark’s tower at Loki’s crumpled form, still in the crater where the Hulk left him, and her fingers itch for a gun. If Clint is dead, she will put a bullet in Loki’s head.

 

Or three.

 

There’s a crackle of static, a cough, and then Clint’s voice, strained and tight with pain, rasps, “Sorry. Lost my comm. What’d I miss?”

 

Natasha closes her eyes, tilting her face to the sky and breathing out a prayer. “Where are you?”

 

“Dunno,” Clint says. “Midtown?”

 

“Look out a window, Legolas,” Stark suggests.

 

“That means moving,” Clint grunts, but the shift of movement comes through the line. “Uh, seventh,” he says. “And...forty-fifth. Ish.”

 

“We’ll get Thor up to you,” Steve says, and then, probably to Thor, “Just follow the signs. It’s a grid.”

 

“I’ll learn,” Thor says, shortly. There’s a rush of air, and Natasha sits down again, her head spinning.

 

Alive, alive, alive. He’s alive.

 

They turn Loki over to SHIELD and go for shawarma, cramped into a tiny restaurant on Broadway that Natasha is amazed is still standing, let alone doing business. Clint stumbles into the chair next to Natasha, and she helps him put his bad leg up to rest on her chair, his foot just pressing against her thigh. The contact grounds her, well worth the raised eyebrows Stark sends in her direction. She doesn’t put a hand on his ankle, just for the extra point of touch, but she wants to.

 

Instead she watches him, making sure he eats, tracking how much water he drinks and whether the telltale signs of nausea are tightening the skin around his eyes and mouth. The circles under his eyes are dark and deep, and she wonders, not for the first time, if he’d slept or eaten at all under Loki’s control. He eats slowly and methodically, his movements controlled, and she knows he’s in automatic survival mode--given the choice, he wouldn’t be here at all, certainly wouldn’t be eating. But she’s here, with her eyes on him, so he’ll eat.

 

He catches her eyes once or twice, the blue his again, no longer that terrifying, inhuman brightness. The weariness in them makes her heart ache, but a soft, tired smile tugs at his lips, and he nudges his foot against her thigh. She moves her leg, pressing back just slightly.

 

They’ve never needed words.

 

“Like I said, you’re all welcome back at the Tower,” Stark says, balling up his napkin and dumping it into the empty, grease-stained basket in front of him. “Pretty sure it’s still structurally sound, and it’s on arc reactor power--everything’s still up and running.”

 

“Fury’ll want us to come in,” Natasha says. Clint’s gaze flickers to her, and she brushes her leg against his foot again, pointed. “We’ll have to debrief.”

 

“Debrief in the morning,” Stark says. “You saved the world.” He glances at Clint. “Besides, I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure I trust SHIELD with our buddy Legolas here after they tried to nuke Manhattan.”

 

Clint gives him a faint grin that doesn’t reach anywhere near his eyes. “Thanks for the concern,” he says, the Midwest drawl that only comes out when he means it to curling around his words. “But I’m pretty sure running won’t help.”

 

“I’ll have your back,” Natasha tells him, more for the benefit of the rest of the table than for Clint. All the same, he looks at her, and this time, the corners of his eyes crinkle. Something inside her loosens.

 

“I still don’t like it,” Stark grumbles. “How are we supposed to know they haven’t shipped you both off to the Gulag or something?”

 

Clint, to Natasha’s utter shock, rattles off the line to his personal cell and tells him to check in if he’s worried. “SHIELD doesn’t have that number,” he says. “It’s a secure line. You call, Stark, and I’ll answer.”

 

Stark raises his eyebrows. “You might regret that, someday,” he says, a hint of the half-false charm Natasha had seen in Malibu slipping into his voice.

 

“Stark,” Clint says tiredly, “I’m pretty sure I regret it already.”

 

Stark grins, and concedes.

 

They take a SHIELD car to Natasha’s Upper West Side apartment, which has survived the day with only minimal cosmetic damage to the side of the building. The doorman’s eyebrows shoot up when they walk in, but he recognizes her instantly and climbs to his feet. “Miss Rushman,” he says, coming around the desk as she heads to the elevator, Clint’s arm slung across her shoulders. “Are you hurt?”

 

“I’ll live, Malik,” she tells him, oddly touched by the look of genuine concern on his face. “But thanks. Please tell me the elevators are running.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, giving Clint an uncertain look. “Do you need a doctor, sir?”

 

Clint gives him a tired smile. “I’ll live, too,” he says. “You’re a good guy for being here after a day like today, Malik.”

 

Malik looks almost affronted. “It’s my job,” he says.

 

“You’re damn good at it,” Clint says. “You got family in the city? They all okay?”

 

The affronted expression slides away, replaced by almost surprised gratitude. “Just a roommate, out in Brooklyn. He’s fine, though. He was out in Jersey helping his brother buy a car.”

 

“Good day for it,” Clint says.

 

Malik grins. “Nah, sir,” he says, the grin making him look instantly younger, almost conspiratorial. “He’s a documentary photographer. He’s pissed. Could’ve been the shots of his life.”

 

“Rough all over,” Clint agrees, and Natasha can’t help but marvel at the way he can do this, smile and offer comfort and kindness to her twenty-four-year-old doorman who puts on a good face but is probably terrified, even when his own body is aching and drained. “Good luck with the rest of the day, man.”

 

“Thank you, sir.” He gives Natasha a deferential nod. “Call down if you need anything, Miss Rushman.”

 

“We will,” Natasha promises, and nudges Clint gently toward the elevators.

 

The air in her apartment feels clean and fresh, such a stark difference from the dust and ash of the streets and even the lobby that her head spins with the clarity of it. She helps Clint sit down and then collapses onto the couch next to him, struggling with her boots. “I need a shower,” she says. “We both need a shower.”

 

Clint tips his head against the back of the couch, his eyes closed. “I can shower later,” he says. “You go.”

 

Something in his voice makes her pause, one boot still on. “Clint,” she says, dropping her boot to the floor and narrowing her eyes at him. “What is it?”

 

“Nothing,” he says. The gentle humor he’d used with Malik is gone from his voice, leaving only a bone-tired weariness that makes Natasha’s own skin ache from hearing it. “It’s just...it’s been a long day.”

 

Natasha closes her eyes, takes a breath, and pulls off her other boot, wincing at the pull of her sprained ankle. “You should call Laura,” she suggests. “It’ll help, hearing her voice.”

 

What little color had remained in Clint’s cheeks drains instantly away, leaving him ashen under the dirt and blood streaking his face. “I can’t,” he says, his eyes snapping open and staring into hers, as if in terror. “Nat, I can’t--”

 

His voice has shifted, has gone tight and breathless and pained. Natasha has known Clint for more than twenty years; she can spot the signs of his panic attacks faster than her own. “Clint,” she says, leaning over on the couch and grasping his face between her hands, forcing him to face her. “Clint, you need to stay with me.”

 

“He wanted Laura,” Clint chokes out, his eyes wide and wild, the agony in them making her stomach twist nearly as much as the idea of Loki at the farm. Nearly, but nowhere close. “He wanted Laura and the kids, he wanted to know what I _fought_ for, and I almost--I almost couldn’t--”

 

“But you didn’t,” Natasha says, and she knows it, because she’d called Laura while Clint was unconscious in the SHIELD medbay, a four-minute call of _he’s alive, he’s back, I have him_ , and Laura’s sobs through the phone had affirmed, if nothing else, that she was okay.

 

If Clint had given them away, Natasha is sure to the bottom of her soul that the farm would have been wiped from the map the second Loki left the Carrier.

 

“You didn’t tell him, Clint,” she says again, more firmly now, pushing away the very idea of the alternative. “You kept them safe.”

 

Clint chokes out a laugh, low and bitter. His eyes are wet at the corners, moisture gathering against Natasha’s thumbs, and she gently wipes the tears away. “Only because I gave him you,” he whispers. “Tasha, I told him everything. I served you up on a fucking plate.”

 

She’s _Tasha_ again, for the second time in twenty-four hours. She’s only rarely been _Tasha_ to Clint in the years she’s known him, always _Natasha_ or _Nat_. She’s _Tasha_ when he’s vulnerable, when he needs her on a terrified, visceral level, and without thinking, and ignoring the throb in her ankle, she slides into his lap. He flinches away from her touch, recoils like he’s worried he’ll hurt her, but she holds him firm, squeezing her knees on either side of his hips and dropping her hands to the sides of his neck. “Good,” she says, and he looks up at her in wide-eyed shock. “If it ever, _ever_ comes down to me or them, Clint, you serve me up every fucking time.”

 

“I--” Clint swallows, his throat moving under the light press of her fingers. “It’s not right, Nat.”

 

“I don’t care,” she says fiercely, shaking him slightly, forcing him to keep his eyes on hers. “At the end of the day, I can put a bullet in his head or mine if I need to. Laura can’t. The kids can’t.”

 

He looks at her, his expression nearly helpless, and something clicks in her head. She takes a breath, steadying her voice. “Clint,” she says quietly, bringing one hand up to cup his cheek, as tender as she can. She notes, with almost vague attention, that her fingers are shaking. “I know it’s not about loving me less. I _know_. It’s okay.”

 

Clint’s lip trembles, fresh tears slipping from his eyes. A full-body shudder goes through him and his head falls forward, his forehead resting against her chest, and he breaks down. The deep, wracking sobs that come out of him break her heart, and Natasha finds herself biting back tears of her own, gathering him into her arms. She keeps one hand resting firmly against the pulse point on his throat, feeling his heartbeat, because the idea of losing that contact, of not having physical proof that he’s here and safe and alive sends cold terror through her veins.

 

She came close to losing him, too fucking close. She knows, she _knows_ , that she should have killed him on the Helicarrier detention level, that keeping him alive was too big a risk. _Sentimentality_ , Loki had said, spat the word at her like it was something he’d found on the bottom of his shoe, and the worst of it is he was _right_.

 

_A child at prayer_ , he had said, and she had been, in that detention hallway, praying with faith she didn’t have that the recognition in Clint’s eyes before she’d coldcocked him had been real. _Love is for children_ , she had told the god in his cell, but in that terrifying moment, she could no more have put a bullet in Clint’s head than Laura’s.

 

But he’s here, and he’s himself, so alive in her arms. The fallout, Natasha knows, will be long; they won’t get past this quickly. But she did what she promised, whispering into the phone to Laura so many horrible days ago.

  
She’s broken too many the promises she’s made to them. But this vow, at least, she’d kept.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: canon-typical violence, canon brainwashing and loss of agency, blink-and-you'll-miss-it reference to implied sexual abuse. 
> 
> Thank you all _so_ much for your patience with me. I ended up sick as a dog last week, and didn't get any work on this chapter done at all. Fortunately, I'm just about all caught up, so you should be getting another chapter next week, and from there on we'll be back on our regular bi-weekly posting schedule. Whew! 
> 
> So this one was a doozy! A doozy full of feels. I've never written Loki before, so hopefully he comes across with all the creepiness that I was going for. Dude is creepy as shit and I am not a fan. The next chapter will deal more closely with Clint's emotional fallout (BECAUSE I JUST LOVE WALLOPING YOU GUYS IT IS MY FAVORITE THING), but squeezing that into this one felt like a little bit too much. So you'll have that to look forward to. 
> 
> In the mean time, look at and enjoy this picture, which got my emotionally compromised shipper heart through writing the last scene:  
> 
> 
> Many thanks, as always, to [deb](http://debz0rz.tumblr.com) for her editing expertise and loving expressions of feels, and to [isjustprogress](http://isjustprogress.tumblr.com) for convincing me that I was not a Terrible Horrible Fic Writer for being a week behind on posting. I have the best team. :) And lots and lots of thanks to all of you who continue to leave comments and kudos. You are my very favorites! 
> 
> Questions? Comments? Feels? Shout at me [on tumblr](http://geniusorinsanity.tumblr.com/)!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, kids: you're gonna want the tissues for this one.
> 
> Don't say I didn't warn you.
> 
> See end of chapter for notes and warnings.

**2012**

 

Clint dreams in shades of blue, icy and cold.

 

He dreams of Project PEGASUS, of the glow of the Tesseract and the song of Loki’s scepter’s stone, and the crumbling crash of the base coming down around him as he drove Loki away. He dreams the screams of the agents under the rubble, visceral and bloody.

 

He dreams of the stone singing in his ears, dipping up and down in pitch and energy, ringing in his ears and making his head spin. He dreams of Loki’s voice, curling dark and cold and purring around him, of the power of Loki’s presence forcing him to his knees.

 

But most of all, he dreams of blood and death. Of Phil Coulson, bleeding out on the floor of the Helicarrier, his eyes glazed and touched with blue. Of Nick Fury on his back at PEGASUS, a bullet through his remaining eye instead of the kevlar over his heart, the back of his head a shattered ruin. Of Natasha’s pulse slowing under his fingers, her nails scrambling for purchase against his arm, drawing blood that he scarcely notices, too busy watching the life fade from her eyes (blue, always blue). He dreams of Laura with Loki’s scepter through her chest, her face contorted in confusion and pain, of Cooper and Lila falling with fletching through their throats.

 

Tonight he dreams of Laura, her voice desperate and horrified as he moves toward her. The kids are behind her, bloody and pale, staring at him with wide, white-blue eyes. Natasha lies at the floor at his feet, her expression twisted with betrayal and pain, the marks of slow torture carved into her pale skin. Laura is pleading with him, but he can’t hear her, the sound of the stone wailing in his ears, making his head spin. But his hands are steady when he lifts his bow, draws back the string--

 

He screams himself awake, bolting upright in bed.

 

“Clint?”

 

Natasha’s hand, cool and gentle, touches his shoulder. Too frantic to even flinch away from her touch, he grabs her hand and presses it between both of his, desperately searching for her pulse with his fingertips. He finds it, steady and strong under his skin, and exhales a shuddering breath, then another, wet and gasping until he’s sobbing.

 

She doesn’t take her hand from his, just sets the other at the back of his neck, rubbing soothing circles against his skin. “You’re alright,” she says, her voice soft. “You’re okay. It was just a dream.”  
  


Clint nods wordlessly, still frantically clutching her hand. He tries to match his breathing to her pulse and fails miserably, grounding himself against the touch of her hand on his neck instead. Her fingers are strong and steady, he knows, and she could snap his neck if she wanted. If she needed to. She could. She _would_ , she’d never let him hurt him, wouldn’t let him hurt Laura, wouldn’t let him hurt Lila or Cooper--

 

As if reading his mind, Natasha’s fingers curl around the back of his neck and shake slightly. “Stop that,” she snaps. “Get out of your head, Clint. Look at me.”

 

It’s agony, but he drags his eyes to meet hers, dreading what he’ll see in them. But they’re green and clear, a little bleary from being woken in the middle of the night but no sign of disgust or pain or fear. They soften as she looks at him, and she takes her hand from his neck to rest it against his cheek instead. “There you are,” she says quietly. “You with me?”

 

He swallows and nods, not trusting himself to speak. She gives a vague, humorless smile. “You want to talk about it?”

 

“No,” he rasps, forcing himself to loosen his grip on her hand and wrist. His fingers have left red marks on her pale skin, and his stomach twists grossly. “Shit. I’m sorry, I--”

 

“It’s _fine_ ,” she tells him, smoothing his sweaty hair. “You’ve given me worse just sparring, Clint.”

 

“It’s not the same,” he bites out through gritted teeth. “You know that.”

 

“I do,” she admits. She pushes her own hair, still tousled from sleep, away from her face and looks at him critically. “Think you can get back to sleep?”

 

His throat clenches at the idea, and he shakes his head. Natasha nods, as if she’d expected that, and gives him a gentle push. “Go start the shower,” she says. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

 

Her words float through the spinning chaos of his mind and arrange themselves in the right order, and he frowns. “Shower?”

 

She looks at him patiently. Her skin is tinted blue in the cool darkness of the bedroom, and it makes his skin crawl. “You’re drenched, Clint,” she says, her voice calm. “A hot shower will help. I’m going to change the sheets and then I’ll be in.”

 

For some reason, he bristles, defensive. “I can take a shower without supervision, Nat,” he snaps.

 

Natasha doesn’t rise to the bait. “I know that,” she says, utterly calm. “But you sweat when you have nightmares, and now I’m gross, too. So we’re showering. Go.”

 

Her tone doesn’t leave room for argument, and neither does her expression. He drags himself out of bed and heads to the ensuite bathroom, closing the door behind him a little more forcefully than he needs to.

 

It’s not fair, taking it out on her, and he knows it. It’s been a month since Midtown and he’s still here, because he doesn’t trust himself around Laura or the kids, and he’s in Natasha’s apartment on the Upper West Side and not his own in Bed-Stuy because Natasha told him unequivocally that if he can’t be trusted around his wife and children, she doesn’t trust him on his own.

 

He’d lashed out at that, too. “I’m not fucking suicidal,” he’d told her, furious.

 

“Bullshit,” she’d said, calm and steady, knowing him, as always, to the core. She’d taken his weapons, from his bow and quiver to the knives in his boots, boxed them up and sent them to Fury. “You’ll get them back when you stop looking out my windows like you’re looking to jump,” she’d told him flatly, closing the door after the SHIELD courier had left, and he’d stopped protesting.

 

He strips out of his sweat-soaked shorts and t-shirt, turning the shower on and leaning against the bathroom wall with one hand stuck under the spray, waiting for it to warm up. The one time he’d gotten in while it was still cold had resulted in a panic attack that didn’t stop until he’d frantically downed the fifth of Jameson from Natasha’s liquor cabinet. Natasha had come home and found him trembling on the floor of the bathroom, the empty bottle in his hand and his eyes shot bloody, and had dumped the remaining bottles down the sink that day. He hadn’t protested at that, either.

 

The door opens behind him and he lifts his head wearily to look at Natasha. She gives him a gentle look, then glances at the pile of clothes on the floor. Her expression becomes much less gentle. “Really?” she complains.

 

Her tone is so petulant that it drags a laugh from his throat, and Natasha cracks a smile, stripping her own shirt and underwear off and sweeping them up with his clothes, dropping them into the hamper between the vanity and toilet. “Out of Laura’s sight for a month and all her good work goes to hell,” she mutters.

 

Despite himself, Clint exhales another exhausted laugh. “I miss her,” he says.

 

It’s the first time he’s admitted it outside of the Skype calls he has with Laura and the kids every day, and Natasha’s expression softens. “I know,” she says, stepping closer to him and touching his cheek. “It’s your call, Clint. You can go back whenever you want.”

 

He flinches. “I can’t,” he says. The words come out pleading and small, and he hates the sound of the fear in his voice. “Not yet. Not until I know I’m safe to be there.”

 

Natasha opens her mouth like she wants to protest, but seems to change her mind. “Okay,” she says, and reaches her hand past his to assess the water temperature. “That’s good enough,” she decides. “Go.”

 

Too tired to disagree, he climbs into the shower. The water hits him, firm and hot and grounding, and he lets it soothe his muscles, dropping his head forward to let it pound against the back of his neck. He feels a shift of the space as Natasha climbs in with him and tugs the curtain closed. She stands close enough to touch, if he wanted to.

 

It’s intentional, he knows. She’s been in his space the entire time he’s been here, leaning against him on the couch, slipping into his showers, curling around him in bed. He knows, he _knows_ , that she’s forcing him to see that she trusts him, but it still makes him flinch and shudder, knowing how close he came to killing her, that only the fact that she has always, always been better than him saved her.

 

(He will never forgive the Red Room for what they did to Natasha, but for giving her the power and speed and skill to take him down, he’ll be grateful forever.)

 

She touches his cheek, just her fingertips, feather-light. He opens his eyes. The bathroom lights are on, and her skin is warm, flushed pink by the hot water. She looks alive, and it makes his pulse sing under his veins. “There you are,” she says, almost teasing. “You went away, for a second.”

 

“Yeah,” he admits.

 

“Wanna tell me where?”

 

He shrugs. “Same as always,” he says, and watches the understanding blossom in her eyes. If anyone would know what this feels like, having his mind taken apart and his will stripped away, it’s Natasha. She hasn’t treated him with kid gloves, but she hasn’t been cruel, either. He’s grateful for it. He closes his eyes again, tipping back his head back into the spray. “It was cold the whole time,” he says quietly, the words almost swallowed up by the pounding water. “I still feel cold.”

 

Her hands touch his biceps, a firm, grounding grip that squeezes gently before she runs her palms over his skin, moving the water over him. “Hot water’ll help with that, too,” she says, and he opens his eyes to look at her, trying and failing to read her expression. It’s caught somewhere between tenderness and worry. “On top of getting the adrenaline out of your muscles.”

 

“I knew that part,” he says, a little petulantly, and she laughs softly.

 

“I know,” she says, poking his chest with one finger. “But sometimes you’re an idiot.”

 

She says it so matter-of-factly that he can’t help laughing, letting his head fall forward to rest on her shoulder. She drapes her arms around him, gently, and it should be weird, naked under the spray of the shower with his ex-wife or ex-lover or whatever the fuck she is now, but it isn’t. Hesitant, not quite trusting himself but too tired to fight the instinct, he wraps his arm around her waist, and she steps closer to him, her body flush against his. He feels her pulse jump under his cheek where it rests against her neck, and she turns her head slightly, kissing his cheek. “Do you feel warmer?” she asks, her voice soft, almost a whisper.

 

Clint swallows. He knows that tone. For the first time since Loki’s scepter touch his heart, the blood in his veins feels warm, and then hot. “Yes.”

 

“Good,” she says, lifting her head from his and looking up at him. Her eyes are bright. “Then come to bed.”

 

Not trusting his voice, Clint nods. Natasha smiles, and reaches past him to turn off the water. The sudden chill should send him into shaking, but it doesn’t. Her eyes, on his, hold him steady.   She takes his hand, and he’d follow her anywhere.

 

They’re both still damp from the shower when they fall back onto the fresh sheets Natasha’s spread on the bed, but she doesn’t let him up to go back for the towels they’d left on the bathroom floor, her arms twining around his neck and tugging him down to the bed. She pulls him over her, his body weight settling over hers, and he freezes. Natasha catches his pause, gives him a concerned look. “What is it?”

 

“I don’t--” He swallows, looking for the right words. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

 

Natasha looks thoughtfully at him, and then pushes him gently until his back hits the soft, cool sheets. She takes his place, straddling his hips and taking his hands, bringing them up and threading their fingers together to pin the backs of his hands to the bed. “Better?”

 

Something loosens in his chest, relaxes and turns to warmth and safety under her hands. “Better,” he says, and means it.

 

Natasha smiles, and bends, and kisses him.

 

She’s gentle. It doesn’t surprise him, and maybe it shouldn’t. They haven’t kissed since the clusterfuck in Syria, when Hill and Coulson pulled them out after a week of torture and hell and they’d managed a quick, desperate, _thank-fuck-we’re-alive_ fuck crammed into the lav on the SHIELD jet.

 

This--this is different. This is like what came after, at the farm, Laura leading them gently to bed, her hands gentle and tender after so many days of violence and harshness. Natasha’s never been soft like this in bed--even at her sweetest, she has an edge of sharpness that he’s never stopped loving--and it makes him wonder, wildly, if she’s channeling Laura’s soothing touches and slow, quiet motions. Her lips are smooth and warm against his, and she fits him against her with fingers that curl so gently around him that he barely recognizes the touch before he’s sliding home.

 

A soft sigh leaves her lips and he feels the air leave him in a rush. Her hips meet his and she shudders against him, her fingers clenching on his as she drops her forehead against his. “You won’t hurt me,” she says, her breath ghosting over his lips. “I trust you.”

 

Clint takes a shaking breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He looks up at her, his vision blurry with the tears stinging at his eyes. “How?”

 

Natasha rolls her hips against his, a slow, almost experimental movement, and he exhales hard, flexing his fingers against hers. She smiles, gentle but somehow still almost dangerous, and kisses his forehead. “Because you’re you,” she says simply. “Even when you weren’t.”

 

She’s so close to him he can see the tiny beads of sweat along her hairline, can smell her skin. She surrounds him completely; it’s the safest he’s felt in a month. “I would have killed you,” he whispers.

 

“No, you wouldn’t,” she says. She keeps moving, keeps her gaze on his, and he feels like he’s drowning in her.

 

“I tried to,” he protests, and she pushes down against him so firmly it pushes the breath from his lungs and a soft gasp slips past her own lips.

 

“Yeah,” she says, her teeth gritted, her voice a little less steady. “Just like you took Fury out with a shot to Kevlar instead of a double-tap headshot, just like you took out the Carrier engine with the easiest access to the engineering quarters and emergency repair equipment, just like you took a shot at Hill from ten feet away and _missed_ \--”

 

She punctuates that with a hard roll of her hips, and Clint bites back a groan. “Gun’s not my weapon,” he chokes out.

 

“Bullshit, _Hawkeye_ ,” she says, and he gives up, knocks her hands away from his and rolls them, pinning her underneath him and pressing his lips to hers. He feels her triumphant grin against his mouth instantly and doesn’t give her the satisfaction of responding, just pours all of his energy into making her come.

 

She does, twice, and he manages to tip her into a third before he gives up and follows her over the edge, shuddering and catching himself hard on his forearms and elbows before he completely collapses on top of her, gasping. Natasha wraps her arms around him, her own breath coming in shaking pants, and presses his face against the crook of her neck.

 

And then she starts laughing, her shoulders shaking against him. Clint shoves half-heartedly at her, but can’t muster real offense. “Thanks a lot,” he mumbles into her shoulder.

 

“Oh, shut up,” she says, but her voice is warm with amusement. “This is _I told you so_.” She pushes her face against his until he looks at her. “I told you you wouldn’t hurt me,” she says, and her eyes are smiling, soft. “And I told you that I trust you.”

 

“Goading me into giving you orgasms is a really weird therapy technique,” he mutters, dropping his head back down against the pillow.

 

“Tough,” she says, wriggling under him until he slips out of her and curls up beside her. She rolls over to face him, her lips gently curved into a warm, sated smile. “You’re going to be okay, Clint.”

 

He doesn’t have the energy to argue, his limbs sleepy and heavy and warm, the chill of Loki’s touch gone, at least for now. “Yeah,” he says, closing his eyes. “Okay.”

 

“And you’re getting on a plane on Friday,” she continues. “And going home.”

 

Her arm, still around his shoulders, tightens. It’s a firm, grounding motion, and he knows she must feel him tense, but she keeps her grip tight until he relaxes. “Yeah,” he says, testing his reaction, and finding the instant panic he’s expecting is a ripple, not a tidal wave. “Okay.”

 

“And I’m coming with you.”

 

She says it firmly, but gently, like she knows it’s what he needs, and the relief flows through him in a rush. “Yeah,” he says, and doesn’t bother to keep the desperate gratitude out of his voice. “Okay.”

 

“Good,” Natasha says. Her lips press against his forehead, soft and solid. “Now, go to sleep. If you show up at home looking like a zombie, Laura’ll think I’m treating you like crap, and she’ll cry.”

 

(They tell Laura in the morning. She cries anyway, but she’s smiling, and the blood in Clint’s veins stays warm.)

 

**2015**

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking,” Clint said pleasantly into his headset. “We are approaching our final descent. If you look out the windows on your left, you can see the Finger Lakes, which definitely don’t look like my five-year-old’s attempt at a landscaping project. Please remain in your seats until the captain has turned off the fasten seatbelt sign, because you never know when someone might decide to shoot at us. Thanks again for flying Barton Air, you have a great day.”

 

On his left, Natasha snorted. He glanced back at her. “What?”

 

“Nothing,” she said, looking amused. “Just wondering when you became a walking dad joke.”

 

“You love my dad jokes,” he told her.

 

Natasha rolled her eyes, but didn’t deny it. “When’s our touchdown?”

 

He glanced down at the controls, checking his speed. “Wheels down in ten.” He looked over his shoulder at Wanda, dozing in her seat. “Aw, she didn’t even hear my great plane captain thing!”

 

“Dad joke,” she teased.

 

He stuck his tongue out at her, then glanced at Wanda again. “Think she’s gonna do okay? Being back?”

 

Natasha’s expression softened. “She’s going to do fine, Clint,” she said. “She’s not a little girl.”

 

“I know that,” he grumbled, verifying the landing coordinates and pulling back on the throttle, flicking the landing gear switch with his free hand. “Just seems like she’s rushing it, is all.”

 

“She’ll be fine,” Natasha repeated, but her voice was calm, no trace of irritation. When he looked over his shoulder at her, she was watching him with something very much like affection. “But I’m sure she’ll be glad to know you’re looking out for her.”

 

“Not a word, Romanoff,” he said, turning back to the controls. “You’re gonna mess up my reputation.”

 

“What reputation?”

 

He flipped her off without looking at her, and heard her laugh. Shaking his head in fond amusement, he he tapped the PTT button on his headset. “Tower, this is Quinjet 7,” he said. “We’re six miles out, approaching at one-eight-oh knots, fifteen-thousand feet.”

 

“Roger, Quinjet 7,” ATC told him. The voice was young, cheerful, and instantly recognizable as Sam Wilson’s. “We’ve got you in our sights. Maintain your current heading. You’ve got an open runway on two-six-right.”

 

“Roger that, Tower.”

 

“Cleared to land two-six-right, Quinjet 7,” Sam said, and then, a grin audible in his voice, “Welcome back, Hawkeye.”

 

Clint grinned, making for the runway. “Glad to be back, Falcon.”

 

Steve and Sam met them as they climbed out of the jet, both dressed casually in track pants and sweatshirts, like they’d just come from a workout. “D’you think they coordinated their outfits?” Clint muttered to Natasha out of the corner of his mouth, and grinned triumphantly when she muffled a snicker into the mouth of her water bottle. “Hey, guys,” he said, more clearly. “Thanks for the landing clearance.”

 

“Seems like it’s the only way to get my plane back,” Steve said, but he grinned, shaking Clint’s hand.

 

“They’re your planes now?” Clint asked, raising his eyebrows. “What does Stark say about that?”

 

A brief, stormy look flickered into Steve’s eyes. “I’d tell you, if he’d answer my damn phone calls.”

 

“Language,” Natasha quipped.

 

He gave her a long-suffering look, and she laughed, stepping into his space and giving him a hug. Steve chuckled and returned it, squeezing her briefly. “How are you, Nat?”

 

“I’m good,” she said, smiling. Clint glanced at her, and she returned his gaze, her smile softening, becoming just slightly more tender before she turned to Sam. “Heard you running ATC. Are we that short-staffed?”

 

Sam grinned. “Nah, I just like to watch that guy fly,” he said, nodding at Clint. Clint grinned back. He knew he liked that kid. “Some of the SHIELD guys still talk about the Kulpit you pulled off over Beirut. Wish I could’ve seen that live.”

 

“I’ll do a dramatic reenactment for you sometime,” Clint promised. He felt a tingle at his four o’clock and turned just slightly in time to see Wanda step out off the jet, her bag slung over her shoulder. She looked slightly uncertain, but she smiled at Steve and Sam. “Good morning, kiddo,” Clint said, cocking an eyebrow at her. “Did you fall back to sleep once we landed?”

 

“No,” she said, a faint flush touching her cheeks, and he realized with a start that she’d redone her makeup, her eyes redefined in a soft grey liner, her lips redder. He let his other eyebrow drift up to join the first, and her blush darkened as she moved past him to look at Steve. “Where are the others?”

 

“Vision and War Machine? Running a perimeter patrol,” he said. Clint didn’t miss the slightly flicker of disappointment that went across her face. “How are you doing? You look better.”

 

“I feel better,” she said, smiling. She cast a glance back at Clint, and he made an encouraging “shoo” motion at her. “What have I missed while I was gone?”

 

“We’ll fill you in,” Steve said, gesturing back toward the main building.

 

As they fell into step toward it, Clint dropped back, watching Wanda thoughtfully and wondering, a little suspiciously, just what _was_ going on between Wanda and Vision. What was Vision, anyway? Android? Cyborg? What was the difference? This seemed like Stark’s area of expertise.

 

Natasha’s hand closed on his arm. “Clint,” she said, her voice hushed, but firm. “She’s a big girl.”

 

He looked down at her, and found her watching him pointedly. “I know that,” he said, instinctively defensive.

 

“And also not your kid,” she added.

 

“I know that, too.”

 

“And even if she _was_ your kid--”

 

“So help me, Natasha, I will push you right into an engine turbine,” he interrupted.

 

She raised her eyebrows, looking around the quiet airfield. “None of these are even running.”

 

“I will turn one on,” he said flatly. “And then I will push you into the turbine.”

 

“Good luck with that, Hawkeye,” she drawled, but she squeezed his arm fondly and let go.

 

He made a face at her, and was about to make a comment that probably wouldn’t turn out nearly as snarky as it sounded in his head when Steve fell back to walk with them. “She looks good,” he said, keeping his voice low, so that Wanda and Sam, deep in conversation ahead of them, couldn’t hear. “Really good.”

 

“Clean country air, Cap,” Clint said lightly, adjusting the strap of his duffle over his shoulder. “You ought to try it sometime. Maybe buy yourself a little place here, since you’re already living upstate?”

 

Steve gave him a pained look. “Barton, I’m from Brooklyn,” he said flatly. “The day I buy a house in the _country_ is the day I finally let Stark check me into a loony bin.”

 

Natasha snorted a laugh. “They aren’t called loony bins anymore.”

 

“And yet,” Steve said dryly, “They at least exist in the boroughs.”

 

“Probably as badly gentrified as Brooklyn is, though,” Clint said. His own neighborhood in Bed-Stuy, where he still kept an apartment, was crawling with hipsters, driving up the rents. He wasn’t a fan.

 

“Don’t get me started,” Steve said, voice glum. “I’ve got seventy-five years of back pay from the Army, plus interest, and I _still_ can’t buy a place out there.” He looked at Natasha. “So. You back for good?”

 

He sounded hopeful, and Clint dropped his gaze to Natasha’s hand, tightening around the strap of her bag. For an instant, he was sure she’d cave and stay, and his heart sank, already planning the speech he’d have to make to the kids.

 

But she shook her head, her expression rueful and apologetic. “Sorry, Cap,” she said. “I promised Clint’s kids I’d go back with him. Pulling Auntie Nat duty for at least a little while longer. And I think Laura’s grateful for the extra help.”

 

Steve looked disappointed, but the point at the end about Laura was probably deliberate, because the disappointment left his face, replaced with a grin. “Didn’t figure you for the domestic type, Nat.”

 

“She’s got her own apron,” Clint said with a grin, digging around in his pocket for his phone. “The kids made it for her a couple months ago. Hang on, I’m pretty sure I’ve got a picture.”

 

“Take out that phone and I will cram it into your esophagus,” Natasha told him sweetly.

 

Clint paused to think about that, thumb poised over the touchscreen.

 

“It would not,” she said, knowing him far too well, “be worth it.”

 

He thought a moment more, and then put his phone away. He’d text it to Steve later. The picture of Natasha in her new apron, covered in cupcake batter and frosting while his kids, smeared liberally in the same, looked on with beaming smiles, had been his lock screen for weeks, and wasn’t to be missed. “Anyway, we’re really just here to bring Wanda back, and check up on the place,” he said. “And then back out to the farm.”

 

Steve nodded. “Sounds like a plan,” he said. “We’re glad to have you while you’re here. Both of you.”

 

“Well, you say that,” Clint said, smirking. “But we’re taking your plane back with us when we leave.”

 

Steve sighed. “I guess I should have expected that,” he lamented.

 

Natasha laughed, bumping him with one elbow and Clint with the other. Clint smiled, watching the laughing light in her eyes, and followed Wanda and Sam inside.

 

**2012**

 

A month after the phone call that changes Laura’s life forever, Natasha brings Clint home.

 

The moment they step out of the rental car, Laura can see that despite the brave face he’d put on for their phone call a few days ago, Clint is nowhere close to himself. His face is pale, deep circles under his eyes, a haunted look in them that will hover at the edges of Laura’s dreams for years to come. Natasha comes around the car and takes his arm, as if holding him up, and he gives her a tired, world-weary smile before looking up at Laura.

 

She’s still on the porch, something deep inside her holding her back from sprinting into his arms like she wants to. Every cell in her body is screaming to run toward him, but she holds herself back, and something like gratitude flickers into his eyes. “Hey,” he says, hoarsely.

 

“Hi,” she whispers.

 

Natasha nudges Clint gently forward, and he takes a halting step toward Laura, and then falters. “I--” he says, and breaks off, looking at her helplessly. “Laura.”

 

She can’t read his face, not like she usually can. Too many things are warring across his features, desperation and pain and fear and something she can’t place, something haunted and afraid. The need to make everything _okay_ again surges over her like a tidal wave, and she swallows the lump that forms in her throat, forcing herself to walk towards him in slow, careful steps. When she’s a foot from him, she stops, looking up at him.

 

Up close, he looks worse, exhausted to a level that she’s never seen before, even after the worst of his missions. His face is more deeply lined than it was when he’d left for New Mexico, and she searches for her husband’s bright, laughing eyes in this old, tired face. He holds himself back from her like he’s afraid he’s afraid of what might happen if she comes any closer, and Laura takes a deep, shaking breath. She squares her shoulders, puts her hands on her hips, and tries to pretend he’s just come back late from a milk run. “You’re late,” she says, keeping her voice light and gentle, chiding.

 

Something loosens in him, like a coiled spring slowly relaxing, and his shoulders lose some of their tension, the faintest crinkling of the laugh lines around his eyes. “Sorry,” he says, his voice shaking, but a small, barely-there touch of a smile on his lips. “Got held up.”

 

His knees seem to buckle then, his shoulders curling in like the act of smiling at her was too much for him to handle. Panic sparking in her veins, Laura moves forward on instinct, catching him before he can fall. She staggers briefly under his weight but then Natasha is there, holding his arms and helping Laura sink to the ground with him, her voice soft as she takes talks Clint down to his knees. Her face is calm, and Laura realizes with a pained shudder that she must have done this before, maybe too many times to count.

 

They settle on the ground in a crumbled pile, Clint caught between them. His arms have come around Laura’s waist, fierce and desperate, and he’s shaking so hard Laura doesn’t know what else to do but wrap her arms around his shoulders and hold him. “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” she whispers, her voice hitching on the endearment before she can catch herself. “You’re alright. You’re okay. I have you.”

 

Natasha doesn’t take her touch from him either, one hand curled over his hip, steadying, the other stroking circles between his shoulder blades. She meets Laura’s eyes, her eyes dark with worry, and Laura knows that Natasha will fill her in on everything later, that the ignorance she’s been railing against for the past month will soon be replaced by more knowledge than she’ll probably want. She swallows and turns her gaze back to Clint, stroking his hair gently as he shakes against him, not crying, just trembling so deeply it borders on violent.

 

She doesn’t know how long they stay like that, curled together on the grass in front of the porch. Laura’s knees start to ache, the grass pressing into the skin of her knees and legs where her skirt has ridden up, but she ignores it, focusing on the steady pounding of Clint’s pulse under her fingertips. He’s alive, he’s here, he’s home. Everything else, she thinks, can wait.

 

Finally, Clint lifts his head, meeting her eyes and making a valiant attempt at a smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey,” he said again.

 

Laura smiles back, touching her fingertips to his cheek. “Hey, you,” she whispers, and can’t resist leaning forward to kiss him. It’s their first kiss in more than a month, and his lips tremble under hers.

 

His smile, while still hesitant, looks more genuine now. “I missed you.”

 

The words come out small and broken, and Laura swallows hard. “I missed you, too,” she says, stroking her fingers through his hair again.

 

He looks around, like he’s only just noticed how quiet it is. “Where’re the kids?”

 

“Mike has them for the afternoon.” They’d fought tooth and nail against going for a day with their uncle knowing that their father was coming home, but Laura had stood her ground. She wanted to know what shape Clint would be in before she let the kids fling themselves at him. “They’ll be home in time for dinner, but I thought you might want to settle in a bit first, have some time to relax.”

 

Clint nods slowly, casting an uncertain glance at Natasha. She squeezes his shoulder, her face calm and reassuring. Laura can’t read the look that passes between them, but the resolve in Natasha’s eyes is so firm that she realizes with a twist in her gut that she doesn’t _want_ to know what it means. “But they’ll be home tonight?”

 

“Yes,” Laura says, firmly, because Natasha had told her on the phone not to let Clint’s insecurity get to her. “They missed you, and they want to see you. But they’ll be gentle.” She pauses. “And don’t comment on Lila’s hair.”

 

That seems to take him aback for a moment, and his brow furrows. “What’s wrong with Lila’s hair?”

 

“Your son got hold of a pair of arts and crafts scissors this morning and decided he was going to try being a beautician for a day,” Laura said sourly, still a bit annoyed about the entire affair. “Her bangs are still growing back in.”

 

He laughs, and it sounds like it’s pulled from somewhere deep inside him, a place he hasn’t touched in a long time. “I’ll put on my poker face,” he says, and drops his head heavily onto her shoulder. “I missed you,” he says again, more quietly now.

 

Laura closes her eyes. “I know.”

 

For all she told them to treat daddy gently, the kids come home in a whirlwind of gleeful shouts, fairly tackling Clint to the ground when he bends down to greet them. All of the hesitation seems to leave him in a rush as he sweeps them into his arms, burying his face in Lila’s hair and clutching them against him with fierce desperation. Laura makes a quick excuse to duck into the kitchen to hide the tears suddenly brimming in her eyes, pulling tissues out of the box and pressing them under her eyes in a probably fruitless attempt to keep her mascara from running.

 

She almost expects Natasha to come after her--she usually does--but Natasha’s still in the living room, keeping a watchful eye on the reunion happening in front of the door. She’s smiling, gentle and tender, but her eyes are sharp, and her gaze flickers occasionally to the duffle bag she’d brought with her.

 

It’s not until later that night, after the kids have gone to bed and Clint is in the shower, that she finds out why.

 

“He doesn’t want to be left alone with them,” Natasha says quietly, sitting cross-legged on Laura’s bed, helping her fold laundry. “He’s afraid of what’ll happen.”

 

Laura swallows. “You kept looking at your bag,” she says slowly.

 

“Yes.”

 

Her heart fills with dread. “Why?”

 

Natasha holds her gaze calmly. “It’s where the weapons are.”

 

Laura feels sick, and she puts down the shirt she’s trying to fold. “Nat,” she says, her stomach twisting.

 

“It was the only way I could get him to come back, Laur.” She says it simply, but Laura can see the guilt and pain in her eyes. “He wouldn’t do it otherwise. He doesn’t trust himself here without an insurance policy.”

 

“And you’re that insurance?” Laura clenches her hands. “What would you do if he tried something?”

 

Natasha just looks at her, and Laura’s heart sinks. “Oh,” she whispers, and has to sit down on the bed, her head spinning. “I didn’t…” She takes a deep breath, trying to calm her pounding heart. “I didn’t realize it was still that bad.”

 

“Still?” Natasha laughs, low and bitter. “Laura, this is _better_. For the first two weeks, I was too scared to leave him by himself at all.”

 

Laura’s blood runs cold. “He wouldn’t do that,” she says. “Not to us. Not to the kids.”

 

“He would have,” Natasha says flatly. “And he’d have believed he was doing it _for_ us. To keep us safe.”

 

Nausea swims through her, and Laura has to close her eyes for moment. “But he’s better?” she asks, hopeful, even though she knows it’s too much to ask.

 

Natasha nods. “Better than he was,” she says. “He’s sleeping more, now, and the nightmares aren’t as bad as they were.”

 

Laura hears what she’s not saying. “But still bad,” she says warily.

 

“Still bad,” Natasha confirms. She hesitates, and then goes on. “He still wakes up screaming from time to time,” she admits. “I was wondering if we should have told the kids. But they’re pretty heavy sleepers.”

 

“Not _that_ heavy,” Laura says, rubbing her temples against the headache that’s started to pound there. She sighs, running a hand through her hair. “Cooper’s been having nightmares, too. Lila’s too little to really understand, but the kids in school were talking about the aliens in New York, and he’s too smart for his own good. He kept asking if Clint was really hurt and just pretending not to be, and if that was why he hadn’t come home yet.”

 

Her voice catches, and she has to duck her head, biting her lips to keep from crying. She’s cried too fucking much over the past month. Natasha makes a soft sound and moves the laundry basket aside, tugging Laura gently into her arms, and Laura gives up any pretense of keeping her tears back, burying her face in Natasha’s shoulder and just letting herself be held. Natasha’s arms are fierce and tight around her, and Laura squeezes back, willing to bet that Natasha needs this as much as she does.

 

She’s dry-eyed again by the time Clint comes out of the shower, the laundry folded and put away. His skin is flushed pink from the hot water, the circles under his eyes still deep and dark, but he musters a small smile at the two of them. “Hey,” he says quietly.

 

Laura smiles gently at him. “Hi,” she says. “Ready for bed?”

 

He nods, the motion slow and a little jerky, and then shoots Natasha an uncertain look. She returns it with one that seems caught between weary exasperation and tender affection. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m staying.” She pauses, then, and glances at Laura. “If that’s okay.”

 

“Of course,” Laura says immediately. She’s not surprised at the relief that goes through her at having Natasha with her--not out of any fear of Clint, but just to have Natasha close enough to touch, to have the reminder that she’s home, too, home and safe, even if it’s just for a little while. “It’s always okay.”

 

“I figured,” Natasha says, but her smile, when it comes, is genuine.

 

There aren’t any nightmares that first night, or the next, or the one after that.

 

On the fourth night, Clint wakes up screaming.

 

Laura bolts upright, gasping, but Natasha’s already awake, wrapping her arms so tightly around Clint’s that Laura has a brief, dizzying moment of worry that she’ll cut off his air. Clint quiets at her touch, though, shaking desperately, and Natasha presses a hard kiss to his shoulder before looking at Laura. “Turn the light on,” she says, and Laura fumbles for the lamp on the bedside table.

 

Her questing fingers find the switch, and warm yellow light fills the room. Clint instantly relaxes, as the blue-grey cast of the moonlight through the blinds is replaced by the lamplight, and Laura touches shaking hands to his arm. “You’re okay, sweetheart,” she whispers, trying to sound soothing, even though her heart is pounding. “I’ve got you.”

 

Light, frantic footsteps sound in the hall, and there’s the unmistakable thud of a small body hitting a closed door but not thinking to try the knob. “Mommy?” Cooper calls, sounding tearful.

 

Clint’s face snaps up, his eyes wide with fear, and Laura realizes with a jolt that his hearing aids are still in and on. “I can’t--”

 

“Go,” Natasha tells Laura quietly. “I’ve got him.”

 

Laura doesn’t argue, just climbs out of bed and grabs her robe from the hook at the back of the door, even as Natasha drags Clint out of bed and pushes him toward the bathroom.

 

Cooper’s standing in the hall when she opens the door, his eyes very wide and full of tears, his lower lip trembling. To Laura’s startled surprise, Lila is there too, clinging to the hem of Cooper’s pajama shirt, quiet for one of the rare times in her entire life, her eyes as wide as her brother’s.

 

She bursts into tears when she sees Laura, though, and Laura barely has time to wonder what must have been showing on her face as she bends down, scooping Lila onto her hip and then folding Cooper into her embrace with her free hand. “It’s okay,” she says, trying to keep her voice soothing. “Daddy just had a bad dream.”

 

“He was yelling,” Cooper said into her neck, and Laura feels a pang when she realizes that he’s crying, too, muffling his tears into her skin. “Daddy doesn’t yell like that.”

 

“He was very scared,” Laura says, turning her head to kiss his cheek. “Auntie Nat is taking care of him.”

 

Lila sucks in a wet-sounding breath. “I wanna sleep with you,” she says around her sobs. “You an’ Daddy an’ Auntie.”

 

Cooper pulls back, looking hopeful, but Laura shakes her head, even though it breaks her heart to do it. “Not tonight, loves,” she says gently. Lila starts crying even harder, and Cooper’s face crumples, but Laura stands firm. She’ll push Clint hard, but not this hard. “I’m sorry. But Daddy needs to have a little space right now.”

 

She climbs to her feet, holding Lila with one arm and only moderate difficulty, putting her other arm around Cooper’s shoulders. “Come on,” she says gently. “Let’s go pick out a book to read, and then we’ll all go downstairs together and have some hot chocolate and Mommy will read to you until Daddy feels better. Then he’ll read you a story, too. Okay?”

 

“And Auntie Nat,” Cooper says, stubborn in the way only a scared six-year-old at three in the morning can be, and Laura caves.

 

“And a story from Auntie Nat,” she agrees. “Come on.”

 

She leaves them in the playroom, looking through the bookshelf, and creeps back into the master bedroom. Clint is on the floor of the bathroom, resting his forehead on the toilet bowl, Natasha perched on the side of the bathtub, holding a washcloth to the back of his neck. She glances up when Laura enters, her expression unreadable. “Hey,” she says softly. “Kids okay?”

 

“They’re fine,” Laura says quietly, coming to crouch down next to Clint. He looks up at her with bloodshot eyes, his face pale, and when she cups his cheek, his skin is clammy and cold. “We’re going to go downstairs to read a story, and when Clint feels better, he’s going to come read another story. And then Auntie Nat’s going to read one, and then we’re all going to go back to bed.” She keeps her voice soft, and strokes her thumb gently along his cheekbone. “Okay?”

 

Clint nods. “Okay,” he says hoarsely. He closes his eyes, leaning into her touch for a moment, and a touch of moisture leaks from his eye to her thumb. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t,” she says, firm. “Don’t apologize for coming home to me.”

 

“You don’t need this,” he says, a hint of frustration coming into his voice, and she knows that he’s not frustrated with her, not really. “None of you do.”

 

“I need my husband,” she says, a touch more sharply than she means to, and Clint starts, opening his eyes and looking at her in surprise. “And your children need their father. It doesn’t matter if you’re not back to a hundred percent yet. You’re _here_. That’s what matters.”

 

He opens his mouth like he wants to argue, but Natasha settles a hand firmly against the back of his head, and he stops, swallowing visibly before giving a small, uncertain nod. “Okay,” he says, like he’s not quite sure he believes it, but he’s going to try.

 

“Good,” Laura says, and leans over, kissing his forehead, and then stretching up to kiss Natasha’s cheek before pushing herself to her feet. “I’m going to help them with book selection. Don’t stay up here too long, or your hot chocolate will get cold and I’ll stick you with _Fox in Socks_.”

 

Clint chokes out a soft, almost painful-sounding laugh. “Perish the thought,” he says, offering a weak smile, and she smiles, bending to kiss his sweat-dampened hair.

 

“I’ll be downstairs,” she says, more for Natasha’s benefit than Clint’s, and Natasha nods. Laura looks over her shoulder as she leaves, and catches Natasha bending forward to press a kiss to the same place in Clint’s hair, her fingers tracing soft circles over his shoulders.

 

The five of them end up squished onto the couch downstairs, Clint pressed in the very center of them with Lila on his lap, Cooper curled up in Laura’s, his head resting on Clint’s shoulder. Natasha sits comfortably on his other side, her arm propped against the back of the couch and her other hand gently stroking Lila’s hair, her lips curved in soft amusement as Clint reads _The Lorax_ , complete with silly voices and occasional kisses dropped to Lila’s nose or Cooper’s.

 

His eyes are still shadowed, and Laura catches a tremor in his hand when he turns the pages of the book, but when she looks across him to Natasha, Natasha’s eyes are calm, soft with relief and something loosens inside Laura’s chest.

 

Things aren’t okay yet, not by a long shot. But Clint reads about thneeds and truffulas and brown bar-ba-loots and his voice is soft and gentle and not wracked with pain or fear.

 

It’s a start. Laura folds her son in her arms, rests her head on the back of the couch, and listens.

 

**2015**

 

“So,” Michael said, plopping down next to Laura on the porch and taking the glass of lemonade she handed him. “What’s going on with you guys?”

 

Laura raised her eyebrows at her brother, adjusting Nate in her lap. He gurgled happily at her, reaching up for her hair, and she gave him her finger to play with instead. “What do you mean?”

 

Despite the chaos of Clint, Natasha, and Wanda leaving that morning, the rest of the day had gone fairly smoothly. The kids had spent the late morning and early afternoon helping Mike and his crew out on the farm, had absolutely exhausted themselves, and were currently sprawled out in the hammock under the large tree in the yard, fast asleep. Laura, for her part, had enjoyed the relative quiet for a little while, but quickly found herself thinking too much, and needing to push the tendency to speculate into the back of her head where it wouldn’t cause her any trouble.

 

Michael looked at her pointedly. “Natasha’s been here over a week now.”

 

He said it as if her response should be obvious, and Laura frowned at him. “She stays for longer than that all the time,” she said. “The kids love it.”

 

“Yeah, but she doesn’t usually stay in your bed.”

 

Laura choked on her own sip of lemonade, and had to put it down quickly and cover her mouth before she spat it out on the baby. “ _Michael_ ,” she sputtered. “Who told you that?”

 

“Lila,” he said, idly. “Your kid has no filter.”

 

“She gets that from her father,” Laura muttered, recovering herself and pushing her hair back, taking a careful sip of her lemonade in an attempt to soothe her angry throat. He kept looking at her, his expression expectant, and she sighed. “Yes, alright, fine,” she said, irritated. “She’s been staying in our room. Not that it’s any of your business.”

 

“You’re my sister, and Clint’s my brother-in-law,” he said hotly, crossing his arms over his chest and tossing his dark hair out of his eyes. “That girl broke your hearts, and then she damn near broke the government. Excuse me for being just a little nervous about you jumping back into bed with her.”

 

Laura stared at him, not quite sure whether to be touched or infuriated. It was easier in high school, she thought, when she could just threaten to complain to their mother about him meddling in her love life. “She’s saved the world at least as many times as she’s nearly broken it,” she managed finally, toying with Nate’s toes. He squealed, and she smiled at him, leaning down to nuzzle briefly at his nose before looking back at Michael. “And in terms of what happened with Clint and me...it’s complicated.”

 

He raised a skeptical brow. “More complicated than your secret triangle marriage that I had to find out about in a way that totally scarred me for life?”

 

“Not my fault you never learned how to knock, Mikey,” she said, giving him a sharp smile. She had no sympathy, and he’d learned his lesson about barging into the house unannounced the hard way. “And yes, more complicated than my secret triangle marriage.”

 

“Which, just so we’re on the same page, nobody except me knows about?”

 

Laura nodded. “And I’d like it to stay that way, please.”

 

Michael shook his head. “Remember when you were the most innocent girl on the block?”

 

“I do not,” she said dryly. “You must be remembering your other sister. Just because I wasn’t stepping out with every boy in school doesn’t mean I was a nun.”

 

He made a face at her, which she returned, and then he sighed. “So you’re, what? Getting back together with her?”

 

“It’s not that simple.” Laura looked across the yard to Lila and Cooper, still sprawled across the hammock, swinging lightly in the warm afternoon breeze. “We never wanted her to leave in the first place. That was her call.”

 

“I still don’t get why,” he said, toying with his glass of lemonade. “You guys always looked happy. Weird, but happy. I didn’t realize what I was seeing the whole time, but...but you looked happy.”

 

“We were,” Laura said quietly, stroking one finger over Nate’s soft hair. “Stupidly happy.” She blinked back the sudden prickle of tears in her eyes and huffed a sigh. “But things happened, and some people got involved that she’d spent years trying to get away from, and she was worried. About the kids being safe, about me being safe. So she left.” She swallowed the lump that always seemed to end up in her throat when she thought about those days, the fear and constant panic in Natasha’s eyes, the way she’d stayed far from Cooper, had barely been willing to touch Laura or Clint. She gave herself a little shake. “She thought it was the only thing she could do.”

 

Michael snorted. “Some leaving,” he said. “She was still always here.”

 

“I told her she had to,” Laura admitted. “For Cooper. And I was pregnant with Lila at the time. I told her she had to be here for the kids.” She gave him a small, guilty smile. “It probably wasn’t fair of me.”

 

“Not really,” he said, but he looked more thoughtful than accusatory. He ran his thumb along the condensation on his water glass, his eyes distant. “Didn’t that just make it harder on you?”

 

“Yes.” She smiled wistfully. “But I think we were hoping she’d change her mind, for a long time.”

 

“But she didn’t,” he said.

 

“No.”

 

He was quiet for a moment, following her gaze out to the kids on the hammock. “So what changed?” he said finally. “What’s different now?”

 

“Nothing. Not really, anyway.” Laura tucked a few loose strands of hair behind her ear before they could get into Nate’s reach again. “She’s just...We’re all just in a strange place right now. Natasha lost someone, after Sokovia, and Clint’s dealing with getting older and this kid, Pietro, dying for him, and I just had a baby. There’s just a lot of emotion in the air, and we’re kind of...I don’t know, looking for each other.”

 

Michael pressed his lips together. “And you’re not worried it’ll end badly?”

 

She exhaled a sharp laugh. “Of course I am,” she said, scooping Nate up and into her arms when he started to protest being on his back across her legs for too long. She settled him against her shoulder, kissing his head gently. “I always do. That woman has an unprecedented ability to break my heart.”

 

He cocked one brow. “I’m sensing a ‘but.’”

 

Laura shrugged. “But I’m in love with her,” she said simply. It struck her suddenly that she hadn’t said that out loud in years--Clint knew it, and Natasha flushed whenever she heard it, as if Laura was trying to give her a gift that was too expensive or personal. “I can’t imagine life without her. Neither can Clint. So we take whatever she’s willing to give. Sometimes it’s just her being here. Sometimes in our bed, sometimes down the hall. Whatever else she’s been, she’s our best friend. We love her. The kids love her. She belongs here.”

 

Michael regarded her for several long seconds, his expression unreadable. And then he laughed, short and fond and just a little exasperated. “Jesus, Laura,” he said, shaking his head. “If only the rest of the moms from PTA knew what you got up to in your spare time.”

 

It wasn’t at all what she was expecting, and despite herself, she laughed, picturing Natasha sitting next to Clint at a PTA meeting in her full SHIELD leathers with Lila or Nate perched on her lap. “Oh, my God,” she said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “Thank you. I needed that.” She grinned at him. “You’re a good brother, Mikey.”

 

He rolled his eyes. “I know,” he said, putting his lemonade down on the porch next to him.. “Don’t call me Mikey. I’m too old for that.”

 

“You’re never too old for that,” she said fondly, and, when he made a face at her, proceeded to tickle him one-handed until he fell off the porch.

 

**2013**

 

In the end, Natasha stays for more than six months.

 

Fury doesn’t like it. It’s too conspicuous, he tells her, too many people asking questions, the Council sniffing around. Natasha tells him, as calmly and as respectfully as she can manage, that she doesn’t give a fuck. To her mild surprise, it’s the expletive that gets Fury off her back. She files that information away, and turns her focus to Clint.

 

He’s a mess.

 

The dreams don’t come nightly, but they’re brutal when they do. He wakes himself up more often than not, sometimes screaming, always shivering like he’s been plunged into ice water, gasping like he’s been drowning. He won’t tell her about them and flinches like he’s been burned if Laura even asks, and Natasha, who has heard the darkest of Clint’s dreams for years, shudders at the possibility of the unknown. She finds herself with a semi-permanent place in Clint and Laura’s bed, slipped between the two of them because Clint goes pale and trembling at the possibility of Laura within his reach while he sleeps.

 

(Two months after Manhattan, Natasha accidentally drops off to sleep in Cooper’s room, reading him a bedtime story. When she wakes in the middle of the night, she finds Laura asleep alone in the master bedroom and Clint on the porch, shaking like a leaf and halfway through a bottle of whiskey. After that, she gives the farm’s liquor cabinet the same treatment as her own, and is careful not to fall asleep until Clint’s dropped off.)

 

But this is the part that hurts more than the shadows on Clint’s face and the constant worry creasing deep lines around Laura’s eyes, the part that makes her heart twist with guilt:

 

She’s happy.

 

It’s been three years since she’s stayed at the farm for more than a few weeks at a time, and she’s forgotten what it feels like to really live there. It’s waking up pressed between two warm bodies, an arm or two draped over her, Laura’s sprawling hair tickling her nose. It’s early mornings bickering over who will get up to make coffee, busy breakfasts wrangling the kids into clothes and shoes, coaxing them into car seats while they protest for one more kiss, one more minute of playtime. It’s afternoon runs through the trails in the woods, the air sweet with the smell of country summer, the trees alive with birdsong. It’s loud family dinners, Lila chattering incessantly about daycare and Cooper, more quietly, recounting his first grade lessons; it’s curling into bed with the kids for bedtime stories and the wet stickiness of the goodnight kisses Lila presses to her cheek and the fierce, lingering hugs Cooper gives her when she tucks him in.

 

It’s sitting on the porch swing with Laura, listening to her talk about her day at school and Clint leaning against the slats so that the two of them can share the swing, his eyes soft as he looks at them, some of the darkness leaving them in those still, quiet moments.

 

Clint holds it together around the kids, more than Natasha really thought that he could. He laughs at the knock-knock jokes and first-grade riddles Cooper learns in school, applauds Lila’s impromptu singalongs, gives baths and reads bedtime stories, so calmly and lovingly that Natasha can almost forget the tremors in his hands, the hesitance that comes before he’ll hug them, the way he has to lean against the wall and close his eyes and breathe deeply, shaking, after they leave for school and the house is still again.

 

But the kids are smart, and Natasha knows they can tell something’s wrong. Lila gets clingier, insisting on climbing into Clint’s lap during the day and crying fiercely when she has to leave for school, flinging herself at Clint immediately when she gets home. Cooper starts having nightmares, waking up crying in the middle of the night, inconsolably asking for Clint when Laura or Natasha goes in to sit with him. When Clint does go to him, he looks as awful as Cooper does, and clings to Natasha’s hand when she tries to leave him alone with him until she stays, watching Cooper sob into his father’s neck and Clint’s face, tight with guilt and fear, as he whispers reassurances that he’s there, he’s okay, he’s not going anywhere.

 

“I think I’m going to put Cooper in therapy,” Laura tells her quietly on a muggy Saturday morning in August, while Clint’s out for a run. Natasha still hates letting him go alone, but she knows he needs the space, and since he’s stopped looking blankly at the kitchen knives, she’s willing to concede that he’s not going to kill himself on a run through the woods. Still, it makes her antsy to have him out of her sight.

 

Now, she pauses, putting down the knife she’s using to cut up fruit for a mid-morning snack for the kids. “Are you sure?”

 

Laura nods. She looks unhappy, but decisive. “I was hoping his nightmares would stop, but they haven’t,” she says, quiet, almost like a confession. “He knows Clint’s different, that he’s acting differently toward him and Lila. It’s scaring him. I don’t think Lila really understands, but Cooper...he knows something’s happened.”

 

Natasha tightens her fingers around the handle of her knife. “I can talk to him,” she begins, not quite sure if she means Cooper or Clint, but Laura shakes her head.

 

“No,” she says, smoothly slicing bananas. Her hair is up, pulled into a loose ponytail, and it makes her look younger, despite the new lines around her eyes and mouth. “It’ll be good for him to have someone to talk to.”

 

Natasha presses her lips together. SHIELD mandated her to therapy three times a week when they brought her in, and her therapist, a calm Hispanic woman with dark, expressive eyes, is the only person at SHIELD other than Clint who knows the extent of her history and her place at the Barton farm. She still sees her when she can, once or twice a month, in person when she can manage it, on the phone when she can’t. It’s been more often, since Loki. She gets the point of therapy, she knows it helps, but… “Can’t you talk to him? You have a degree in that.”

 

Laura snorts. “No,” she says, amused but firm. “My degree’s in developmental psych, not in counseling. And even if it was, I’m his mom. My job is to be his mom, and to give him what he needs.” She smiles, soft and a little sad. “Even if that means knowing when he needs more than I can give him.”

 

Something fragile and pained shifts in Natasha’s heart and she swallows hard, leaning across the kitchen counter to kiss Laura’s cheek. Laura blinks at her. “What was that for?”

 

“For being the best of us,” Natasha says, meaning it.

 

Laura’s smile is tired, but genuine. “You’re all the best of me,” she says, and then hesitates. “Do you think...Could you talk to someone at SHIELD? There are a few child therapists in town, but I don’t know much about them, and I want to make sure that the person I send him to won’t…” She swallows. “That we can trust them.”

 

Natasha hears what she’s not saying. Thanks to the chaos of Midtown and his being fairly high up on a number of buildings, Clint had managed to stay out of most of the news footage of the Chitauri attack. He’s stayed out of the public eye and out of any mainstream recognition, and the town mostly knows him as Mrs. Barton’s often-traveling husband, and Natasha can’t blame Laura for wanting to keep it that way. “I’ll talk to Fury,” she promises, and soft gratitude floods Laura’s face.

 

Fury personally spends a week vetting the different therapists in the area and sends Natasha two names, and Clint and Laura flip a coin to choose one. Clint, to Natasha’s shock, not only takes Cooper to his first appointment, but schedules a parent session to catch the therapist up on SHIELD, what information is classified, and just why it is that Cooper’s post-Manhattan anxiety is different from the other local kids turning up with a new-found fear of aliens and monsters.

 

He comes home shaken and weary, and drops his head onto Laura’s shoulder with an exhausted sigh. Laura wraps her arms around him and whispers, “thank you,” and Clint gives a small shudder, but doesn’t speak. Natasha watches from the kitchen, and tries to swallow the lump in her throat.

 

“You could get your own therapist, you know,” Natasha tells him later that night as they stand in the kitchen together, washing the dinner dishes while Laura supervises bathtime upstairs. “It might help.”

 

“I know.” Clint looks down at the soapy water, his hands buried in the suds. His skin is flushed red around his forearms, and Natasha bites her tongue against telling him the water’s too hot.

 

Natasha dries another plate and puts it away, turning back to him and raising an eyebrow. “But?”

 

He glances at her, his expression tense and tired. “I’m not…” He starts to run a hand through his hair, and then stops, grimacing at the soap suds clinging to his fingers. “I don’t know if it’s my thing.”

 

“You let Cooper do it,” she points out.

 

“That’s different,” he says, shaking his head. “He doesn’t understand what’s going on. He needs someone to talk to about it, someone who’s not involved.”

 

Natasha stifles a sigh. “ _You_ need that, Clint,” she says patiently. “You’re not sleeping, your hands are still shaking, you won’t be alone with Laura or the kids, you’re hiding panic attacks in the bathroom--look at you, you’re scalding your hands off right now because you still think you’re freezing.”

 

Clint flinches, pulling his hands out of the sink, and the line of red on his skin at the water line is a startling contrast to the rest of his arm, angry and sharp. Natasha gives him a pointed look. “I just need to get through it,” he says, a slight tremor in his voice. “Level out, like you said. It takes time.”

 

“Not this much time,” she says.

 

He rounds on her, eyes blazing. “Dammit, Nat, I’m _trying_ , okay? I’m here. I’m trying. I’m here for my wife and I’m here for my kids, and I’m holding my shit together because they don’t deserve to be abandoned just because I feel fucking guilty.”

 

His words land exactly where he means them to, his aim as unfailing as always. Natasha’s blood boils, more defensive fury than justifiable anger, and she has to dig her nails into her palms to keep herself calm, taking a deep breath. “That’s not fair.”

 

Clint holds her gaze. He’s angry, she can see it in his face, but it’s controlled anger, tinged with hurt and frustration but held in check. “Isn’t it?”

 

Natasha presses her lips together, trying to keep from bristling, but the thing is, he’s _right_ , and she hates it. He _is_ trying, he’s there for the kids, trying to keep it together for Laura, which is more than she ever did, letting fear win out over family. Clint’s never called her a coward for it, but now, faced with him struggling through the same thing she was but choosing to stay and fight the fear and uncertainty and guilt, she suddenly feels like one.

 

She must stay silent for too long, because Clint seems to deflate, the fire leaving his face as quickly as it had come, leaving behind only a weariness so deep it makes Natasha’s stomach clench with guilt. He sighs, dries his hands on a towel, and puts his elbows on the counter, pushing his head into his hands. “Shit,” he mutters. “I’m sorry, Nat. That was a shitty thing to say.”

 

Natasha swallows. “No. You’re right.” She leans against the counter beside him, her fingers itching to touch him. “You are trying. I know you are. But you need help, Clint. You can’t do this alone.”

 

A shudder goes through him, his shoulders tensing and his knuckles curling, white-knuckled, against his forehead. “I know,” he whispers, voice hoarse and shaking. The words sound like they’re being forced out of him, small and painful. “I know.”

 

She gives into instinct and runs her fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck. His shoulders relax under her touch, just a fraction, and he reaches back and takes her hand, his fingers tight around hers. She leans over and kisses his fingertips. “Let me call Fury,” she says softly. “Let me help.”

 

Another shudder, and then he drags his eyes up to meet hers. “Okay,” he whispers, and relief floods through her like a wave.

 

Fury sets Clint up with a psychologist at the VA hospital ten miles away, and Clint sees her three times a week. Sometimes Natasha goes with him, keeps a firm grip on his wrist while he slowly, haltingly, tells her everything that Loki made him want to do to her; sometimes Laura goes, and comes back with red eyes but steady shoulders. More often, though, he goes alone.

He comes home looking tired and drained and usually heads straight upstairs for a nap after kissing Laura and giving Natasha a small smile, sleeping like a rock until one of them has the heart to go and wake him.

 

But slowly, slowly, the circles under his eyes look a little lighter, his hands regain some of their steadiness, his smile is a little less forced. He’s quicker to laugh, his touches to Natasha’s shoulders and Laura’s waist more lingering, his hands sure and firm when he tosses Lila, squealing with delight, into the air, or catches Cooper up in his arms after a game of tag.

 

On a still, quiet night in January, Natasha is folding laundry on the guest room bed, listening to the gentle hum of the wind around the farmhouse, when Laura taps gently on the door frame. Natasha glances up, and stills when she sees that Laura’s eyes are misty and bright. “Laura?” she asks, concern fluttering in her chest. Things have been good, they’ve been getting so much better.

 

“Shh,” Laura whispers, putting a finger to her lips, and she beckons for Natasha to follow her. Natasha puts down the shirt she was folding and follows Laura down the hallway to Cooper’s room, peeking through the open door.

 

Clint is asleep in Cooper’s bed, both kids curled around him and an abandoned book still open in his loose hands. Lila drools contentedly against his shoulder, one arm around her wolf and her other thumb in her mouth, Cooper sprawled against his side, Mookey in one hand and his other arm flung across Clint’s belly, his small hands curled into the hem of Clint’s shirt. Clint’s face is calm and relaxed, tension eased from his face, and he looks younger than he has since before Manhattan, content and peaceful and calm.

 

Natasha turns back to Laura, and finds her smiling, her eyes bright and shining. Unable to speak around the sudden lump in her throat, Natasha just holds her arms out, and Laura steps into them, holding her tight and burying her face in Natasha’s neck, the relief shaking through her. Natasha kisses her cheek, her hair, her neck, and holds on tight, weak with gratitude and overwhelmed with a bone-wrenching joy.

 

In the morning, she calls Fury. “I’m ready to come in,” she tells him, tucked into the study while Clint makes the kids breakfast. “Do you have a job for me?”

 

“Better than that,” Fury says, a grin in his voice that does not, in any way, bode well for her. “I’ve got you a partner.”

 

**2015**

 

A summer storm swept up late that afternoon, wind and rain lashing at the trees around the complex and thunder worthy of Thor crashing above them barely seconds after each flash of lightning. Clint frowned out the window of the mess hall, drumming his fingers against the glass. “We probably shouldn’t fly back in this,” he said finally.

 

Natasha hummed her agreement, glancing up at him. His face had a disappointed set, his lips tight, and she sighed, tugging on his sleeve. “Sit down and drink your coffee,” she said. “You’ll feel better.”

 

He made a face at her, but sat down across from her at the table, taking the mug she pushed toward him. He took a sip, looking out the window again. “The kids are gonna be pissed.”

 

“Laura can handle them,” she said calmly. “We’ll stay overnight and go back in the morning.”

 

She caught a flicker of an unmistakable stance out of the corner her eye and turned to see Steve striding toward him, Sam at his side. “Hey,” Sam said, sitting down next to Clint. “Bad news, man. I think you’re grounded here.”

 

“Yeah, I figured that,” Clint grumbled.

 

“We’ll put you up,” Steve said, dropping into the chair beside Natasha. “You know you’ve got a room here as long as you want it.” Steve gave him a wry grin. “You’re still on the Avengers roster, after all.”

 

Clint snorted. “Much to my wife’s dismay,” he said. “Thanks, though.” He looked around the room, his gaze calm and calculating, and Natasha watched his face for signs of disapproval or concern. “Busy place,” he said finally. “You’ve got more people here than when I was here last.”

 

“New recruits,” Steve said. “Some military for tactical support and a bunch of new science kids. And Dr. Cho’s running a training seminar on the Cradle technology, so we have a bunch of people with guest passes, which means some extra security around.”

 

“Rhodes brought most of them in,” Sam added. “He does most of the military vetting with Hill.”

 

Clint nodded thoughtfully, his eyes still scanning the room. Natasha pressed her lips together in amusement. That was Clint, always watching. His gaze lingered briefly on a young recruit eating alone, picking at a salad, and his eyes narrowed briefly before he pulled them back to their table. “Discipline’s a little lax, though,” he said, picking up his coffee mug again. “Saw a bunch of kids with their bootlaces half-undone. That’d get them killed on a mission.”

 

Natasha shot him a pointed look. “Clint,” she said dryly. He looked guiltily at her, and she rolled her eyes. “It amazes me to this day that SHIELD didn’t figure out you were a parent.”

 

“I am a trained spy,” he retorted, but his eyes glinted with amusement.

 

She snorted. “You’re a trained disaster,” she said.

 

Steve watched them, his eyes light with amusement. “You know, Clint, it’s a funny thing,” he said. “Now that I know it, it’s hard to not see it.”

 

Natasha nudged Clint under the table with her foot. “See? I told you. Walking dad joke.”

 

Clint gave her a look that clearly indicated he was trying not to stick his tongue out at her, and she laughed, nudging him again before turning to Sam. “Do you think we’ll be able to leave in the morning?”

 

“Storm’s supposed to blow over during the night,” Sam said, leaning comfortably back and draping an arm over the empty chair beside him. “I know you’ve flown a quinjet in worse, but…”

 

Clint shook his head. “No, you’re right. And Laura’ll feel better knowing I’m not flying through a thunderstorm. It makes her nervous, for some reason.” He drummed his fingers against the tabletop, and Natasha resisted the urge to reach across the table and still his hand with hers. Still, she understood his reluctance to stay. Three to one was a rough ratio, even without a newborn, and Nate had been fussy the last few days.

 

She felt the weight of Steve’s gaze on her, and glanced to her right to see him watching her thoughtfully. When he caught her eye, though, he smoothed his expression into almost playful accusation, though his eyes were still serious. “I’m still not sure I’ve forgiven _you_ for not telling me about Clint’s secret family. What if something had happened to both of you?”

 

“Fury would take care of it,” Clint said, sipping his coffee. “Or Hill, if Fury couldn’t. She’s made some tough calls to Laura before.” He met Natasha’s gaze, and she tightened her grip on her coffee mug, breathing away memories of a dark, dank cell in a Syrian mountain range and the cold kiss of sharp, half-rusted metal against her skin.

 

“Just to Laura?” Steve raised his eyebrows at Natasha, his playfulness more sincere now. “You don’t have a secret husband somewhere we don’t know about?”

 

Natasha caught Clint nearly choke on his coffee, and kept her face very carefully blank. “Six of them,” she said. “One in every port. I like to spread them around, just to make sure they’re always available.”

 

Steve rolled his eyes. “Y’know, Romanoff, just when I try to be supportive of you…”

 

She laughed, leaning back in her chair and running a hand through her hair. “No, Steve, I don’t have a secret husband.”

 

Clint’s fingers flexed around his mug, and Natasha glanced at him. His expression was unreadable, and a tingle of guilt prickled against her veins. She nudged her foot against his under the table, and his eyes softened a bit at the corners.

 

The storm kept up through the evening, darkening the sky early and casting an almost dreary gloom onto the usually bright complex. Rhodes “borrowed” Clint for a weaponry consult in the evening, and Natasha busied herself with a few rounds of sparring with Steve before turning in early, making her way back to her quarters on tired feet. She’d been keeping herself in shape running on the farm, but there were few substitutes for a sparring session with an enhanced super-soldier.

 

A hot shower soothed the ache from her muscles, and she stretched out on her bed, closing her eyes and listening to the rain. The complex hummed with activity, the steps of boot-clad feet and a constant murmur of voices, and Natasha ran her hand along the stitching of her duvet cover, thinking of the rougher, handmade stitching of the guest blanket back on the farm. Idly, she let her mind wander back to that moment of discomfort over coffee that afternoon. It had been a long, long time since she’d felt guilty for denying having a boyfriend or husband or partner, even with Clint sitting right beside her. Something had changed in the last few weeks, something subtle and small, but meaningful nonetheless.

 

The click of the electronic lock on the door to her quarters startled her out of her reverie, and she had a gun in her hand and was on her feet before Clint called out, "Relax, it's me."

 

She slumped in relief, dropping back down onto the bed. "You couldn't knock?" she complained as he came through the hall and into her bedroom.

 

"Thought you might be in the shower." He plopped down beside her, dressed in a SHIELD t-shirt and a pair of comfortably worn sweatpants. He looked freshly showered, and she allowed herself a moment to look over the pull of the shirt along his shoulders.

 

"What if I was?" she asked, scooting over to give him more room. She didn't bother to protest him inviting himself into her bed. Some things, she knew, would never really change between them.

 

Clint shrugged. "I'd take a nap until you got out."

 

"And give me a heart attack," she grumbled, but handed him a pillow when he made grabby hands at it.

 

“It’s not my fault you guys don’t have biometric locks,” he said. “Your code was too easy to guess.” He shot her a significant look, and she very carefully did not flush.

 

Her code was Laura’s birthday.

 

“It’s a hazard of the job,” she said instead. “Can’t do retinals if people are always getting black eyes, can’t do fingerprints if they might get burned off. Eight-digit codes are usually safe enough.” She pushed her hair back. “What’s up?”

 

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and waved it at her. "I was gonna call Laura and the kids to say goodnight," he said. "Thought you might want to join in, since they're going to ask for you anyway."

 

Natasha smiled, putting her gun away. "That would be good," she said, leaning down so that Clint could angle his phone to include both of them in the camera shot. She ended up with her head pillowed on his shoulder, his head resting over hers, and she inhaled the scent of his soap and skin.

 

The call took a few moments to connect, and then the image of the kitchen filled the screen, Laura and Cooper and Lila gathered around the table, using Laura's laptop rather than her phone if the angle was anything to go by. "Hey, munchkins," Clint said.

 

Lila leaned forward, effectively blocking out her brother and mother. "Hi Daddy! Hi Auntie Nat!"

 

"Lila, sweetheart," Laura chided gently. "Lean back so Daddy and Auntie Nat can see everyone." Lila pouted but sat back, and Laura gave them an apologetic smile. "Sorry. We've just had dessert, so there's a bit of a sugar high going around."

 

"I had ice cream and pie," Lila announced. "Cooper only had pie."

 

Cooper wrinkled his nose. "We only had mint ice cream," he said. "It doesn't go with pie."

 

"Does too," Lila retorted.

 

Laura stepped in before things could escalate, clearing her throat pointedly. "Is the weather still a mess out there?"

 

Clint nodded, his cheek moving against Natasha's hair. "Supposed to pass by morning," he said. "We should be home by lunch time."

 

"With Auntie Nat," Lila reminded him sternly.

 

Natasha smiled. "Yes, with me. I promised, didn't I?"

 

Something Natasha couldn't identify flickered across Laura's eyes, her gaze meeting Clint's briefly through the screen, and then it was gone. "There," she told Lila, "see? I told you."

 

"Dad," Cooper said, leaning forward on his elbows. "Today I went out with Uncle Mike on the tractor, and he showed me this thing where you drive it with your feet, and--"

 

Laura's expression turned pained, but Natasha couldn't help smiling, listening as Cooper talked about his brief, fortunately supervised foray into stunt driving. A glance up at Clint showed that he was totally focused on Cooper's story, his eyes as intense on Cooper's face through the screen as they'd be through a sniper scope, but much softer, warmer. Natasha shifted, tucking her head more securely under his neck, and he glanced down at her and shifted to sling his arm around her shoulders. She felt warm and comfortable, and more relaxed than she had since the quinjet touched down on the complex tarmac. She let herself relax, breathed deeply, and listened to the call, taking in every detail--each of Lila's smiles, of Laura's laughs, of Cooper's cocked eyebrows, so like Clint's it made her laugh until her sides hurt. She didn't want the call to end, but more than that, she wanted to be on the other line with them, at the table, with Nate in her arms, close enough to breathe in the lavender-sweet scent of Laura's hair.

 

Something _had_ changed, and she felt it so deeply it ached.

 

True to Sam's word, the storm blew over during the night, and the morning dawned clear and bright, sunshine sweeping over the damp grass and making it shimmer. Natasha slipped her sunglasses on as and then, rolling her eyes, handed Clint the spare pair of his she kept in every duffle she owned as he searched helplessly through his pockets. He flashed her a grin, and she sighed. "What would you do without me?"

 

"Pine helplessly," he said cheerfully as they headed out to the quinjet.

 

They'd said goodbye to most of the new team over breakfast, but Steve and Wanda came with them out to the tarmac. Wanda kept close to Clint, intermittently stepping closer to him and then falling back slightly, her expression caught somewhere between uncertainty and determination. Clint was doing a remarkable job of pretending not to notice, but Natasha could see him keeping his body language open and relaxed, and the faint smile tugging at his lips. She shook her head, amused. He'd never stood a chance.

 

"So," Steve said, falling into step beside her. "How long do you think you'll be gone?"

 

"I don't know," she admitted. _It's hard to leave_ , she didn't say, but the words were at the tip of her tongue. She swallowed them. "Not too much longer. I know you need me here."

 

"I need you in top form," Steve said. He gave her a long, lingering look. "No unfinished business pulling your attention away."

 

Something in his tone made her pause, and she looked at him more closely. His face was calm and friendly, but his eyes were thoughtful, almost calculating as they searched hers. Despite how much she respected Steve Rogers, she forgot, sometimes, that underneath all the muscles and speed was a mind as sharp as hers. "What are you asking me, Steve?"

 

He shrugged. "I'm not asking anything," he said. "I'm just saying. As your team leader. I need you focused."

 

"I can be focused," she said firmly.

 

Steve smiled. "Good," he said. He put a hand on her shoulder, the weight heavy and firm. "I trust you, Nat," he said, quiet and sincere, his eyes bright. "I just...I want you to trust your own choices."

 

Defensiveness prickled under her skin, a desire to shoot back _I do_ , but she calmed herself with a breath. "I know," she said instead, and his lips tugged a little further up at the corners.

 

"Good."

 

They reached the jet, catching up to Clint and Wanda, who were talking quietly. "Gonna do fine," Clint was saying as they drew into earshot. "Okay?"

 

Wanda nodded. "I know."

 

Clint shook his head. "Someday you'll start saying that like you mean it," he said, but he smiled gently at her, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a slip of paper. "That's my cell, Laura's cell, and the house phone," he said, handing it to her. "You need something, even if it's just someone to talk to, you call, okay? Any time. Day or night."

 

She took it with a trembling hand. "Thank you."

 

"Yeah, well." He rubbed the back of his head, clearly embarrassed at the gratitude in her voice, and cleared his throat. "You ever need someone to come get you out there for a visit, you just call me. Might take me a little while to get out here flying commercial, but--"

 

Wanda launched herself forward, throwing her arms around his neck. Clint staggered back a half-step, catching her around her waist, and then seemed to recover himself, wrapping his arms around her more gently and ducking his head to speak quietly into her ear, his voice a low murmur that Natasha couldn't understand. Steve had stiffened beside her, his eyes wide, and Natasha touched his shoulder when he started to move forward, shaking her head. "Let her be," she murmured. Steve glanced at her, his expression questioning and touched with concern, but settled.

 

They stood there for a long time, Wanda wrapped in Clint's arms, her shoulders shaking, Natasha and Steve keeping a quiet watch. Finally, after a long, shuddering sigh, Wanda drew back, looking up at Clint with red-rimmed eyes. He brushed his thumbs across her cheeks, his eyes soft, and then, with a teasing grin, squished her cheeks gently. "You're gonna be great," he said, and she wrinkled her nose at him, wriggling out of his grasp.

 

"I know this," she said, almost crossly, but her eyes were smiling, her face brighter than it had been a moment ago. She reached out, and gave him a little shove. "Go home," she said. "Tell the children I say hello. And kiss little Pietro for me."

 

He gave her a pained look. "We are _not_ ," he said, "going to start calling him that."

 

She smiled at him. "Maybe _you_ will not," she said. "Go."

 

Clint chuckled, leaning over and kissing the top of her head before nodding to Steve. "Cap," he said.

 

"Barton." Steve shook his hand. "Keep in touch. And don't keep Romanoff too long."

 

"Wouldn't dream of it," Clint said, shooting Natasha a grin. "She'll start training my kids with knives."

 

"Only Cooper," Natasha said, feigning innocence. "Lila's much more suited to a garrotte."

 

Clint groaned, and Natasha laughed, giving Steve a short, brusque hug and Wanda a smile before nudging him up and onto the jet.

 

They stowed their bags easily, and Clint plopped down in the pilot's chair, grabbing his headset and looping it loosely around his neck. She sat down beside him, and he glanced at her as the hatchway closed. "So," he said, flashing an easy grin. She did him the favor of ignoring that his eyes, like Wanda's, were just slightly too bright. "Home?"

 

Natasha leaned back in her seat, gazing out the window at the training complex, shining and white and chrome, and could think only of an aging farmhouse, love and family stitched into every floorboard, every fiber. "Home," she agreed, and Clint smiled.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: depictions of post-traumatic stress (including nightmares, flashbacks, panic attacks, vomiting, and avoidance), graphic depictions of violence (in dreams), reference to unsafe alcohol use, semi-explicit sexual content, reference to suicide and suicidal ideation, secondary trauma (kids reacting to a parent's trauma by experiencing nightmares, anxiety, and separation anxiety)
> 
> This one was a bit of an emotional rollercoaster. It was a tough one to write, especially since it's been about four years since the last time I wrote post-Manhattan Clint. In all honesty, this chapter could have gone on for days, because trauma recovery is not a nice neat package, but if I did that, you guys would never get a chapter to read. ;)
> 
> Many thanks, as always, to [deb](http://debz0rz.tumblr.com) for her editing brilliance. :) And lots and lots of thanks to all of you who continue to leave comments and kudos. You are my very favorites!
> 
> Questions? Comments? Feels? Shout at me [on tumblr](http://geniusorinsanity.tumblr.com)!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A smidge late, but it's a long one. Hang on to your feels, kids, Hydra's in town.
> 
> See end of chapter for notes and warnings.

**2015**

 

They touched down on the farm property before noon, and Natasha had to shield her eyes against the sun as they left the jet. “Nice flying, Barton,” she commented, patting the side of the quinjet. “Got us back right on schedule.”

 

Clint flashed her a grin, checking the last few instruments before following her down the gangplank. “I do my best,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder and adjusting his sunglasses. “More for Laura’s convenience than yours, to be honest. You know she hates when I’m late.”

 

“ _I_ hate when you’re late,” she reminded him.

 

“Yeah, but when I’m late for Laura, it throws off the kids’ schedule. If I’m late for you, people might just shoot at you, and they’d do that anyway.”

 

Clint’s grin could definitely be described as shit-eating, and Natasha rolled her eyes. “Remind me again,” she said mildly, “why I put up with you?”

 

“My dashing good looks?” He suggested.

 

She snorted. “Which you’re fortunate have held up into your middle age,” she said dryly.

 

Clint’s smile faltered for a moment, just an instant of tightening around his eyes, and then he pulled the grin back. “Well, you know,” he said, his voice light and easy. “Clean living, and plenty of time spent jumping off shit and getting sewn back together.”

 

Natasha paused, looking at him. His face was relaxed again, but she could still see the faintest lines of strain around the edges of his smile, and she sighed. “Clint, you know I--”

 

“I know, I know.” He gave her a thin-lipped smile. “I’m just...Y’know.”

 

She nudged him with her shoulder. “How many years am I going to spend picking telling you that you’re not worthless?”

 

“Dunno,” he said, nudging her back. “How many more you got in you?”

 

Natasha chuckled, shaking her head and touching his arm gently. “As many more as it takes,” she said, and his smile loosened, going soft and quiet and calm.

 

“Good.”

 

The kids charged out of the house to meet them as soon as they came into sight, and Natasha found herself with an armful of Lila Barton. Well-practiced by now at catching her, Natasha scooped her up, letting Lila wrap her legs around her waist and snuggle her face into her neck. “Hello, sunshine,” she said, glancing past Lila’s shoulder at Cooper, currently burrowing his face into Clint’s ribs. “And other sunshine.”

 

“Jeez, it’s almost like you missed us or something,” Clint said, ruffling Cooper’s hair and then bending down to press a firm kiss to the top of his head. “Were we gone a day or a year?”

 

“ _Da_ ddy,” Lila whined, lifting her face from the crook of Natasha’s neck and making a face at Clint. “We’re allowed to miss you when you go away!”

 

Clint’s expression softened, and he reached out to her. Natasha passed her over, and Clint settled her onto his hip. “You’re right, baby,” he told her, leaning over to kiss her nose. “You are allowed to miss us whenever you want.”

 

“I only missed you a little,” Cooper said, and Clint laughed gently.

 

“Well, that’s okay too.”

 

Cooper grinned shyly up at Natasha. “I missed Aunt Nat a lot, though,” he said, light and a little teasing, and Natasha snickered, tugging Cooper over and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, kissing his hair.

 

“I knew I liked you,” she said, and he giggled.

 

Clint gave her a long-suffering look. “Mean,” he said, and looked at Lila, widening his eyes hopefully. “You missed me, right, munchkin?”

 

Lila looked thoughtful. “I don’t know,” she said. “Can I have extra dessert?”

 

Clint groaned, putting her down on the ground again. “No love,” he said, grumpily. “Time was around here that dad was everybody’s favorite.”

 

“There’s still Nate,” Cooper offered helpfully.

 

Natasha shook her head. “Nope,” she said. “I’m gonna be Nate’s favorite. You’ll have to have another one.”

 

Clint snorted, gesturing for the kids to start heading back toward the house. “Good luck selling Laura on that one,” he said dryly, and Natasha laughed.

 

Laura met them on the porch, Nate in her arms and a relaxed, easy grin on her face. “Hello, gorgeous,” she said to Clint, smiling and tilting up her face. Clint cupped her cheeks in his hands, kissing her with a lingering softness that put a lump in Natasha’s throat, and then dropped a much lighter peck to her nose. Laura wrinkled it and he laughed, taking the baby from her. “And hello to you,” Laura said, opening her arms to Natasha.

 

“Second choice,” Natasha sighed, pitching mock hurt into her voice, and Laura rolled her eyes, folding Natasha into her arms.

 

“Hush. You know you aren’t.”

 

“Mmhm.” Natasha closed her eyes, breathing in the smell of Laura’s hair, familiar and sweet. Laura held her close, running one hand gently over Natasha’s back, and Natasha resisted the urge to arch her back and hum.

 

But Laura could always read her body language, and she laughed softly, giving Natasha another brief squeeze before pulling back. She searched Natasha’s face, her eyes thoughtful. “Good trip?”

 

“Good enough,” Natasha said, pushing her hair back and glancing at Clint. “What do you think?”

 

Clint nodded. He was still mostly focused on Nate, bouncing him gently while Nate cooed and attempted to grab at Clint’s nose. “Good,” he agreed. “Dropped off Wanda, gave her a pep talk, made fun of Steve a little bit…”

 

Laura groaned. “Clint,” she protested.

 

“Only a little bit!” Clint insisted. He glanced at Natasha. “Back me up, Nat.”

 

Natasha briefly debated leaving him to flounder, and then took pity. “He was very well-behaved,” she said. Lila wrapped her arms around her waist, and Natasha draped an arm around her shoulders. “We kept a close eye on him.” She looked down at Lila. “What did you guys do while we were gone?”

 

“We did farming!” Lila said, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. “With Uncle Mike!”

 

Natasha raised her eyebrows at Laura. Laura smiled back. “They helped do lettuce and peas for the CSA,” she said. “They were very helpful.”

 

Lila beamed. “We found bugs!”

 

“ _Lots_ of bugs,” Cooper agreed.

 

Laura made a face. “The perils of organic farming,” she lamented.

 

Clint chuckled. “You and Mike were the ones who wanted the place pesticide-free,” he said.

 

“I might be reconsidering,” Laura said dryly. “Your son was attempting to collect a few of them and bring them into the house.”

 

Natasha glanced at Cooper. He looked innocently back, wide-eyed. She laughed. “No bugs in the house, Cooper. You know that.”

 

“I wasn’t _really_ gonna,” Cooper said, but he shot Clint a conspiratorial, glinting look out of the corner of his eye. Clint winked at him.

 

Laura caught the look and gave a long-suffering sigh, holding out her arms. “Give me back my baby, you,” she said. “I’m leaving you all out here to be eaten by bugs.”

 

The afternoon slipped by in a haze of quiet productivity. Natasha found herself helping Lila pick out outfits for the summer camp she’d be starting next week, shooting the occasional despairing look at the door in the hopes that Clint or Laura would come rescue her. Lila seemed to have entirely recovered from her bout of whatever stomach bug had knocked her out earlier in the week, and the energy she showed as she bounced back and forth from her closet to her bed with different tops and shorts made Natasha’s head spin.

 

“Honey,” she said, when Lila had picked up and put back the same ruffled pink shirt three times, “Do you really need to pick out all of your clothes now?”

 

Lila gave her a pointed look. “Auntie Nat,” she said, patiently, as if she had no faith in Natasha’s ability to grasp simple concepts, “I _have_ to know what I’m going to wear. It’s _important_.”

 

There was a soft laugh from the doorway, and Natasha glanced up to see Laura leaning against the doorframe, a laundry basket balanced on her hip. “She gets that from you, you know,” Laura said, giving Lila an amused look. “I was never so into clothes.”

 

“Lies,” Natasha said flatly. “I went wedding dress shopping with you.”

 

Laura stuck her tongue out. “That was different, and you know it.”

 

Natasha returned the look, and then arched one brow.. “Do you need me?”

 

“I do, if that’s okay,” Laura said, inclining her head toward the door. “Lila, sweetheart, you keep doing what you’re doing.”

 

Lila gave her mother a grinning thumbs-up, and Natasha kissed her forehead before climbing to her feet, following Laura down the hallway to the master bedroom. “What’s up?”

 

Laura dropped the laundry basket onto the bed, put her hands on her hips, and looked at Natasha firmly. “I need you to go do something with Clint.”

 

Natasha blinked. “Why?”

 

“Because he’s looking at my porch like he wants to paint it or replace the flooring or do something equally drastic, and I’m going to kill him if he starts _another_ project,” Laura said, her face almost despairing.

 

Natasha snorted. “I guess you called it,” she said. “He needs something to do.”

 

“So give him something to do,” Laura said. “Please?”

 

She pouted her lips hopefully, and Natasha shook her head. “Not fair,” she said. “You know I can’t resist that face.”

 

Laura grinned, wicked and sparkling. “I’m counting on it.”

 

“Cheap shot,” Natasha said, but she smiled all the same. “I’ll see if he’ll spar.”

 

“Thank you,” Laura said emphatically. Natasha rolled her eyes fondly, leaning across the laundry basket to drop a kiss to Laura’s cheek before heading downstairs.

 

The front door was propped open, allowing the warm summer breeze to drift through the living room and kitchen. Natasha slipped through the open door onto the porch, where Clint and Cooper sat on the steps with a chessboard between them, Nate tucked into the corner of Clint’s arm. Cooper wore an expression of concentration that was Clint’s face in perfect miniature, tapping a taken pawn against the edge of the steps as he studied the board, and Natasha smiled. Few people, even in SHIELD, knew that Clint’s penchant for jumping off buildings and getting himself shot hid a deeply strategic mind, and he’d been teaching Cooper chess since Cooper was old enough to learn the game.

 

He glanced up at her as she came outside. “Hey,” he said, and she instantly recognized the look in his eyes that had put Laura on edge. It was distracted and a little stormy, hovering on the edge of anxious, like there was energy hovering under his veins that needed to be released. “How’s camp fashion?”

 

“Fascinating,” she said. “Coop, I hate to interrupt your game, but I actually need to steal your dad for a little while.”

 

Cooper blinked up at her. “For what?”

 

“Your mom says I need to beat him up a little,” she said cheerfully, patting Clint’s shoulder as he winced. “Apparently he’s looking like he wants to paint the porch.”

 

“Not _paint_ it,” Clint protested. “Maybe just, y’know, a new coat of finish or something.”

 

Natasha looked pointedly at him, holding out her arms for the baby. Clint sighed, passing Nate up to her and climbing to his feet. “We’ll finish the game after dinner, okay, bud?”

 

Cooper nodded, already carefully moving the chessboard away from the steps. “Can I come watch you guys spar?”

 

Natasha hesitated. Their sparring wasn’t quite as vicious as it used to be, but it still wasn’t particularly child-friendly, unless they were working to make it appropriate for small eyes. With Clint looking the way he did now, she knew there was little chance of that, and after a long flight this morning, she wanted to let off some energy herself. “Not this time,” she decided. “Maybe the next one, okay?”

 

Cooper looked disappointed. “Okay,” he agreed, and looked at Clint. “Can I watch you shoot arrows later if you go practice?”

 

“That you can do,” Clint said, and, at Natasha’s none-too-gentle shove, headed into the house to change.

 

Transitioning a section of the old barn on the property into a gym and workout space had been one of the first projects Clint had dragged Natasha into when they moved to the farm. She’d gone along with it willingly--they needed a space to spar and practice where children couldn’t get under foot, and at the time, Laura had smiled at the idea of watching them make their way back to the house, sweaty and flushed, while she stood calm and waiting on the porch steps.

 

Following Clint out to the barn, Natasha couldn’t help a fond smile at the memory, looking ahead of her at the movement of Clint’s shoulders and backside under his t-shirt and shorts. Despite the aches and pains he complained of, the years had been good to him. She wondered, vaguely, if Laura would still be watching from the porch when they came back tonight.

 

She found herself hoping that she would.

 

As if sensing her eyes on his back, Clint glanced over his shoulder at her as he slid the barn door open. “Stare much, Romanoff?”

 

Natasha allowed herself a predatory smile. “I like to know what I’m going to be fighting.”

 

He snorted a laugh, stepping back to gesture her into the barn ahead of him, sliding the door shut behind them. “Like you haven’t been wiping the floor with me for years,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Any particular reason Laura wants you to kick my ass?”

 

Natasha shrugged, rolling her shoulders back and watching Clint drop the sparring mats to the floor from where they leaned against the wall. “She said you were moping.”

 

“I wasn’t _moping_ ,” Clint grumbled, bending down into a low lunge to stretch his legs, swinging his arms up. “I was just...I dunno, looking for something to do.”

 

“Well, I found you something to do,” Natasha said, stretching her arms. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she snorted. “Not like that.”

 

Clint grinned, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as he moved onto the mats, so like Lila that Natasha had to stifle a laugh. “Not like that, then,” Clint agreed, but his eyes were glinting, amused. “You ready?”

 

“For you?” Natasha asked, widening her eyes sweetly. “Always.”

 

Clint laughed, bent himself back into a fighting stance, and then launched himself forward.

 

Natasha met him with bared teeth and a grin, very nearly managing to catch him with a fist to the gut. Clint twisted out of the way, his movements so smooth they looked almost like a dance, and Natasha watched him with warmth curling in her veins. He leveled a kick at her ankles and she flipped back, and he was there to meet her when she landed again. She tumbled and struck out at his knees, and he went down onto one of them, aiming a sharp punch at her shoulder. Natasha caught his punch, grinned, and Clint met her eyes with a fierce smile before twisting his hand out of her grasp.

 

They fought for a long time, long enough that Natasha lost track of time altogether, moving around each other with the ease of long practice. Natasha felt sweat pooling on her temples and in the small of her back, and Clint’s shirt was damp at his neck and underarms, his pupils blown dark as he watched her movements. She smiled sharply at him, watching the heat in his eyes, and she didn’t bother to pretend that the quickness of her breath was due only to the exertion. “You haven’t been practicing,” she teased him, breathless.

 

“I’ve been parenting,” he shot back, but he was grinning, his teeth flashing white in his smile. “Not as much wrestling as I’d like.”

 

Natasha caught his next jab with the back of her wrist, turning over her shoulder to aim the point of her elbow at his belly, and Clint spun smoothly out of the way. “Should have called me,” she said.

 

Clint’s eyes flashed, and his next punch, when he threw it, was nearly vicious. “Wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said.

 

She didn’t rise to the bait. “For you?” She said, echoing her earlier challenge, and trading all of her sweetness for heat. “Always.”

 

Clint’s gaze went dark and hot, and he struck out, spinning toward her. Natasha tumbled, taking advantage of his momentum and slashing out against him with the heel of her palm. Clint grunted, dodging most of the blow and blocking it with his forearm, but she was already moving into her signature hurricana, catching him between her thighs and whipping him firmly to the ground.

 

He went down hard, landing on his back with a rush of air, and Natasha moved, grabbing his wrists and pinning them to the mats as she straddled his waist. Clint sucked in a breath, his pupils blown so dark she could barely see the blue-green of his eyes, and she smiled down at him, breathless. “Pin,” she said, half a challenge, but sure of her victory.

 

Clint looked up at her, his eyes fixed firm and steady and hot on hers. He twisted his wrist in her grasp and tapped his knuckles against the mat. “Yield,” he breathed, and she watched his throat move as he swallowed. His voice, when he spoke again, was barely a murmur. “ _Natasha_.”

 

She watched a drop of sweat move down the curve of his jaw, felt the heat of him under her, the weight of his gaze. And then she gave up, and threw caution away, and bent down to kiss him.

 

He made a startled sound in the back of his throat as her lips touched his, but barely an instant passed before he kissed her back, his lips parting under hers. She pressed him down, deepening the kiss with a moan she muffled into his mouth, and Clint wrenched his wrists out of her grasp, his hands splaying wide over the bare skin of her back, one thumb brushing the hem of her shorts, the other just touching the band of her sports bra. The touch of his hands sent sparks running along her spine and she pushed forward against him.

 

Clint broke the kiss with a choked gasp, groaning as he tilted his head back. “Jesus, Nat,” he said, breathless.

 

Natasha rolled her hips, felt the heat of him through the fabric of her clothes. “Been a long time since we’ve fought like this,” she whispered, breathless as she dropped another kiss to his lips, light and fleeting. “Forgot how you react.”

 

“Laura’s healing,” he said, half a grin curling his lips. “Been a long six weeks.”

 

“I can tell,” Natasha said, and kissed him again. Clint’s mouth opened to hers immediately, and she leaned into the kiss with a sigh, their bodies pressing together, damp heat trapped between them. She closed her eyes, losing herself in the pleasure of the kiss--there had been embraces, over the years, but she couldn’t remember the last time they’d kissed like this, fierce and grappling and desperate with the need to be close to one another, the adrenaline of violence still heavy in their veins.

 

A twig snapped outside the barn and Natasha snapped her head up from Clint’s, sucking in a breath. He looked up at her, his eyes wide, caught between arousal and worry, and she rolled off him with a gasp. Clint pressed his hands over his eyes, a shuddering, grounding motion, and then sat up, angling his legs strategically just as the door pushed open, revealing Cooper’s face. “Hey,” Clint said, still a bit breathless. “What’s up, bud?”

 

Cooper glanced between them, his expression curious and unreadable. “Mom says it’s time for you guys to come in so you have time to shower before dinner,” he said, hovering near the door. “She said she doesn’t want you to be gross.”

 

Clint laughed softly. “We’ll be right there,” he said. “Thanks for the heads up.”

 

Cooper hesitated, looking at them a moment longer, and then gave a small smile, disappearing from the doorway.

 

Clint watched him go, and when his footsteps had faded away, he took a deep breath, climbing to his feet. Natasha allowed herself a glance over him and noticed with an instant of fleeting disappointment that he’d gotten his body’s reaction to her back under control, save for the flush on his cheeks. He glanced down at her, and his lips twitched into a smile. “The wife calls,” he said, and held out his hand for her. “You coming?”

 

Natasha took his hand, and let him pull her to her feet. When he tried to pull away, though she held him fast. “Clint,” she said, quietly, emotions she couldn’t even name swirling through her mind in a haze of arousal and confusion. “We should talk about that.”

 

His smile faltered, and then faded. “I know,” he said quietly. “We will.” He squeezed her hand. “Ready to go?”

 

She wanted to say she wasn’t, to have a few moments to herself to catch her breath and cool the still-racing heat in her blood and sort out her spiraling thoughts. But his grip around her hand was warm and steadying, and she wanted, suddenly and more than anything, to stay in contact with him, to keep him close. She straightened her shoulders, and cocked her head to one side. “For you,” she said, and smiled, just to see his eyes glint. “Always.”

 

**2013**

 

Her partnership with Steve Rogers does not start well.

 

The first few missions Fury sends them on are milk runs, and it’s a good thing. They mesh about as well as oil and vinegar on those jobs, still learning each other’s fighting styles and skillsets, and by the end of the two months, Natasha’s ready to scream. Steve’s hit-first-questions-later approach crashes straight through Natasha’s long-honed subtlety and elegance, it’s by the grace of sheer dumb luck that they make it out of Latvia, Belarus, and Belize (in that order) with their limbs intact and their mission objectives completed.

 

After a job in Turkey that goes tits-up so quickly Natasha had spent the rest of the mission doing damage control, she stalks into Fury’s office the minute Medical releases her with fresh stitches itching along her shoulder blade and a bandage around her knuckles. “I want a new partner,” she snaps, kicking the door shut behind her.

 

Fury snorts. “Hello to you, too,” he says, leaning back in his chair. The DC skyline stretches out behind him, glittering and gorgeous in the late afternoon sun, and Natasha wants to glare at it for daring to be lovely when she’s so annoyed. “You just missed Rogers. He came in with the same request.

 

“Good,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest, not even wincing at the tug of her stitches. “Shouldn’t be hard to do a transfer, then.”

 

“It’s as hard as I decide to make it,” he says, narrowing his eye at her. “And I’m of a mind to make it damn tricky for you, since you seem to be forgetting that I’m the one who makes those assignments around here.”

 

Natasha glares. “I want,” she repeats, “a new partner.”

 

“Tough shit.” He gets up, crossing to the table against the wall and pouring her a generous glass of an amber liquor, holding it out to her pointedly. Natasha sighs and takes it, and he points her toward the black leather couches in the center of the room.

 

When she’s sitting, her shoulders tight and the glass held loosely in her hands, he brings the decanter with him and sits down across from her. “How’s Barton?”

 

The abrupt change of topic should probably phase her, but she’s known Fury long enough that it doesn’t. He might be down one eye, but he’s been able to read her too well from the beginning. “Better,” she says, running her thumb along the smooth crystal of her glass. “He’s shooting again, but not with a SHIELD bow. One of his old ones. Not sure where he dug it up.”

 

That’s not quite true, but Fury doesn’t need to know that. The last time she’d talked to Clint over Skype, he’d shown her the fresh bowstring calluses on his fingers, telling her about the bow Laura had unearthed for him in the attic in one of the boxes Natasha had brought from her old New York apartment, and his grin had reached all the way to his sparkling eyes.

 

“That’s progress,” Fury says, and extends his glass to her. “To an absent friend,” he says, and as irritated as she is with him, she leans across the table and clinks her glass to his. The liquor is a good, well-aged bourbon, different from the scotch he’d had in the decanter the last time she’d been here, but just as high in quality. “Now,” he says, leaning back. “What’s your problem with Captain Rogers?”

 

“I thought he’d already been in here,” Natasha says, sipping her drink.

 

“He was,” Fury says. “I want to hear what’s pissed _you_ off.”

 

Natasha crosses her legs and leans back against the smooth leather of the couch. “He’s impulsive,” she says flatly. “He takes idiot risks. He hits first and asks questions later. He refuses to back down from a fight. He threw a _motorcycle_ during the job in Belize, and nearly got us picked up by the police. He’s the least subtle person I’ve ever worked with. Just the way he moves has _Captain America_ written all over him, and I’m supposed to be able to blend into anything in order to do my job. Do I need to keep going?”

 

“Don’t strain yourself,” Fury says dryly. “I don’t suppose it’s worth pointing out that, up until that last part, all of those complaints have been made against Agent Barton.”

 

“Clint’s never thrown a motorcycle,” Natasha retorts, but it’s half-hearted. She _knows_ how similar Rogers is to Clint, and she’d be lying to herself if she said that wasn’t part of why working with him makes her so miserable--he’s so nearly Clint in so many ways, but so _not_ Clint it makes her chest hurt. “And he knows how to blend.”

 

Fury drains his glass and pours himself another. “Would you like to know what he said about you?”

 

Natasha shrugs one shoulder. “Let me guess,” she says, letting the sarcasm drip from the words. “That I have the moral range of a teaspoon? That I’d rather stab a man in the back than fight him head-on? That I’m degrading myself by using my body to get information?”

 

Fury’s lips twitch. “You might be surprised,” he says, and holds out the decanter to her. She pours herself another two fingers. He watches her thoughtfully for a few moments, and then sighs. “Natasha,” he says, with a sensitivity in his voice that takes her off-guard. “I know you want Barton back on the roster. Believe me, so do I. But he’s not ready to come back yet, and I need you partnered with someone at your level. Right now, Rogers is the only person we’ve got.”

 

“I can’t work with him, Nick,” she says. Her throat is warm from the bourbon, but her mind is clear, her hands steady. “It’s not a good fit.”

 

“Only because you’re pushing against it,” he says, holding her gaze steadily. “I know you, Romanoff, you could blend with a cactus if you needed to, and Rogers has the skills to keep up with you. You’re not giving him a shot because you want Barton back, and you’re fucking this up for both of you.”

 

She flinches at the cool frankness of his tone, and has to clench her toes inside her boots to keep from bristling visibly. “I’m not the only one fucking this up,” she says flatly. “Don’t put that on me, Nick. If he’s as good as you say, he should be keeping up with _me_.”

 

“I’ve already had that talk with him,” he says. “We’re talking about you now.” His eye softens. “The minute Barton comes back, Strike Team Delta is back together,” he says, and she knows it’s a promise, even if he doesn’t mark it as one. “But you know as well as I do that that could take years. He took a hit, a bad one, and it’s gonna be a long time before he’s up to fighting speed again. The show must go on, Agent Romanoff, and you’re our starring girl.” He raises his glass to her, his lips curled in a wry smile. “So go talk to Rogers, and work your shit out, or so help me I’ll send you to H.R. mediation and have Lois do it for you.”

 

The threat is implicit. She leaves his office, and takes his decanter of bourbon with her.

 

It takes another three months of missions that nearly go up in flames before Natasha breaks into Steve’s apartment with two bottles of vodka. He’s sitting in the armchair in his living room, all but waiting for her, and raises his eyebrows when she produces the vodka. “You know,” he says, taking out two glasses anyway, “I’m not supposed to be able to get drunk.”

 

“Neither am I,” she says, not a disclosure, because they’re not _there_ yet, not nearly, but she owes him at least a little honesty. She waggles one of the bottles. “Let’s see if we can manage it anyway, shall we?”

 

Steve cracks a grin, one of the first ones she’s seen from him that makes it to his eyes--a Steve Rogers smile, she thinks, not a Captain America one. “You’re on, Romanoff.”

 

“Natasha,” she tells him, and pours the drinks.

 

The vodka is a proper Russian brand, pure and with the chill of her homeland in its bite as it slides down her throat. Steve chokes and swears like a sailor as he downs his shot, and it’s the most endearing thing that’s ever come out of his mouth. “Jesus motherfucking Christ,” he gasps, putting his glass down. “What _is_ that?”

 

“Russian Standard,” she says, smiling fondly at the bottle. It’s a new brand, as her reckoning goes, but she’s become quite fond of it. “Come on, Steve, I thought you learned how to drink in the war.”

 

“I haven’t had a drink since 1945,” he grumbles, but gamely pours himself another drink. “So,” he says, looking directly at her face, his blue eyes serious but calm. He always looks her in the eyes, not like some men do, like they’re forcing themselves to look at her eyes and not her breasts, but properly, like he was raised to respect women. “You don’t like me.”

 

He says it flatly, simply, like it doesn’t hurt his feelings, and for all she knows, maybe it doesn’t. “I don’t not like you,” she says, tilting her glass and watching the low lighting glint along the clear liquor. “I don’t know enough about you to not like you. What I don’t _like_ is your fighting style. You make a mess of things.”

 

Steve takes another drink, more smoothly this time, and reaches for the bottle. “I get the job done,” he says. “It’s always worked before.”

 

“ _Before_ was Nazi Germany,” she retorts, pouring another drink of her own. “Not small-scale ops that are supposed to be covert.”

 

“They wouldn’t send me in with the shield on my back if they wanted covert,” Steve shoots back, narrowing his eyes at her. He’s not defensive, though, he looks almost pleased, like arguing about his tactics is a long-missed hobby. “And I didn’t see you complaining when I took out half that cartel in El Salvador.”

 

Natasha knocks her drink back. “I was busy doing damage control with the ambassador who was ready to shoot me in the head because he thought I was connected to you,” she says, the vodka still tingling along her lips. “Because the _mission_ was to find out how the cartels were getting the drugs over the border into Guatemala, not to beat up a bunch of cronies.”

 

“No cronies, no transport,” he says, shrugging one broad shoulder.

 

Natasha stares at him. “You cannot,” she says, “be that stupid.” He gives her a look of wide-eyed innocence, and she scowls. “Don’t give me that bullshit, Rogers, I know there’s tactical genius under those baby blues. What was your plan?”

 

Steve raises his eyebrows, his expression almost thoughtful, and then he shrugs again, pouring himself another drink. “It takes months to build up a transportation line,” he says, running his thumb over his glass. “After you infiltrated, whether they figured out who you were or not, they’d be on high alert. That means screenings, background checks on all the drivers, the pack men, the border guys. Taking out those ‘cronies’ put a wrench in their operation that’s going to take them months to undo.”

 

She parts her lips at that, and then pauses, following his logic through to its conclusion. It makes a twisted sort of sense, and she sighs. “You could have told me,” she says.

 

“I know. And I didn’t, and that’s on me.” Steve slides the bottle across the small table to her, and she takes the hint, pours another drink. “But you can’t tell me that you’re not just as bad. You don’t tell me what you’re doing, you just go ahead and assume I’ll follow your lead.”

 

“I don’t need you to follow my lead,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “I need to know that you have my back. That you’re not going to go on a joyride with some guy’s motorcycle.”

 

Steve has the good graces to wince at that, and then he sighs, scrubs a hand over his neck in a motion so like Clint that she clenches her fingers around her glass. “We might as well be honest about what this is about,” he says quietly, tapping his glass gently against the table. “We’ve got partners who aren’t here. You want me to be Barton, and I’m not. I want you to be--”

 

He breaks off, snapping his mouth shut so abruptly that Natasha hears his teeth clack together, and she swallows, downing what’s left in her glass. She knows exactly who he’s referring to, and her memories of James Barnes, nothing like the ones Steve carries, are seared into her like a brand.

 

The bottle is running low.

 

“You’re right,” she says, finally. She dumps the rest of the first bottle into her glass, and opens the second, pushing it toward him. She’s just barely begun to feel the tingling of alcohol in her fingertips. “I am comparing you to him.”

 

Steve takes a breath, tipping the new bottle to fill his glass. The barest hint of a flush touches his cheeks, but she knows he’s not affected by the drinking yet, not really. “I didn’t ask,” he says. “How is he, anyway?”

 

“He’s okay,” Natasha says, and then stops. He _is_ okay, in some ways, he’s healing, but his eyes still have a haunted cast to them, and Laura tells her that he’s still having nightmares, still unwilling to touch his SHIELD bow. “He’s healing,” she amends, and closes her eyes for a moment. “Slowly.”

 

“I haven’t seen him on any of the SHIELD bases,” Steve says, not quite angling for information, but curiosity hovers on the edges of his words.

 

Natasha shrugs. “He’s off-grid,” she says. She might be getting to trust Steve, but Laura is Clint’s secret, not hers. Not anymore. “Everything that went down with Loki made him plenty of enemies. He’s staying out of SHIELD’s sighs as much as he’s staying out of anyone else’s.”

 

“But you have contact with him,” Steve points out.

 

“Yes.” Natasha toys with her empty glass, and then refills it. “I’m his partner.”

 

“You pulled him back,” he says, his blue eyes calculating but calm. “Out of Loki’s spell.”

 

She snorts. “I threw his head into a metal pipe, if that’s what you mean.”

 

Steve’s gaze doesn’t waver. “But you didn’t kill him.”

 

She hears the question he doesn’t ask, and shakes her head. “We’re not like that,” she says. “He’s my best friend.”

 

He inclines his head. “I had a best friend,” he says, and there’s a weight to the words that makes her take notice, makes her realize that the sudden emotion in his eyes is more than just simple sadness--it’s mourning, deep and intense and dark. “We said the same thing.”

 

 _Not like that_ , he doesn’t say, and but she hears it all the same. It strikes her, not for the first time, that for Steve, 1945 was less than a year ago, and the wound of Bucky Barnes’s death is still fresh and seeping. She swallows, and raises her glass. “To partnerships,” she says softly, holding his gaze. “Old and new.”

 

Steve’s smile is soft and almost wry, but he clinks his glass against hers. “To partnerships,” he echoes, and inclines his head. They drink, and he picks up the bottle. “We’re gonna make this work,” he says. “Right, Romanoff?”

 

“Right, Rogers,” she says, and he pours her another glass. “So,” she says. “Want to see how much liquor it takes to get a super soldier tipsy?”

 

“You know,” he says, with a spark in his eye that says _soldier_ , not _mascot_ , a true spark, a grin. “I really do.”

 

**2013**

 

She starts thinking about it a year after New York, and once the thought comes, she can’t quite shake it.

 

Clint’s doing better. He’s not completely back to himself, not quite, but he’s getting there. Laura watches him, but not constantly, not like she had to when he first came back. The spark in his eyes that made her fall in love with him, so many years ago, is there more often than it’s not. The nightmares come less frequently, and when they do, he wakes shuddering, not screaming, curling into her arms and not away from them.

 

“He’s sleeping better,” she tells Natasha on a sunny day in late June, as they sit on the porch swing with glasses of lemonade. The school year has ended, and Laura feels blissfully free, relaxed and calm in a way she hasn’t for months. Clint has the kids with him on a trip into town, ostensibly to go grocery shopping and to pick up a few things at the hardware store, but he knows that she’s been missing Nat, and she suspects he’s staying out longer to give them some time alone. “Through the night, most of the time.”

 

Natasha smiles, relief flickering into her eyes. “Good,” she says. “He needs the rest, chasing those rascals around all day.”

 

Laura laughs softly, sipping her lemonade. “Stay-at-home parenthood agrees with him,” she says, and means it. “I wasn’t expecting that it would, but...he seems to enjoy it.”

 

“It’s peaceful,” Natasha notes. “I think he needs that.”

 

Laura snorts. “It is _not_ peaceful,” she says. “Have you _met_ our children?”

 

If the _our_ catches Natasha off-guard, she doesn’t let it show on her face. She shakes her head, amused. “Fair enough,” she says. “But it’s more peaceful than being shot at.”

 

“Maybe,” Laura allows. “Though I think when Lila’s throwing one of her tantrums, he might prefer the latter.” She runs her thumb through the condensation on her glass, thoughtful and uncertain about where to go next.

 

“Laura,” Natasha says, disrupting her reverie. She looks curious, one eyebrow gently arched. “You’re thinking very loudly.”

 

“I’m sorry.” Laura presses her lips together, and then sighs. “I’ve been thinking about talking to Clint about having another baby.”

 

Natasha’s face goes blank, her usually expressive eyes completely shutting down. Laura sighs. “See, that’s why I didn’t want to say anything.”

 

“No, it’s--” Natasha breaks off, sighs, pushing her hair back. She’s growing it out, and it nearly brushes her shoulders now. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted like that.” She’s quiet for a moment, her expression caught somewhere between wistfulness and regret, and Laura wonders suddenly if she knows that’s what she’s showing. “Another baby?”

 

Laura draws one leg up, resting her foot on the swing and wrapping her arms around it, her glass held loosely in one hand. “I started thinking about it a few months ago,” she admits. “Lila will be four in December, and I keep thinking, you know, my brothers and I were all fairly close together--I don’t want a huge age gap between the kids. I want them to get to be kids together.”

 

Natasha traces patterns in the condensation on her glass, her eyes thoughtful. “Do you think Clint won’t want to?” She asks after a long, quiet moment.

 

“No. Not exactly.” Laura chews her bottom lip, trying to sort out her thoughts. “I guess I’m just worried that he’ll…” She exhales hard, not quite a sigh, but a heavy breath. “When we planned Cooper and Lila, it was the three of us,” she says, cutting to the point. “He knew--or at least, he thought--that you’d always be there to keep him steady, to balance him out, to drag him back when he got too deep into his head. And this time, it’s…” She swallows, pushing past her insecurity and forcing herself to get the words out. “This time, it’s just me.”

 

Natasha looks stricken. “Laura,” she says, and then stops. She takes a deep, shaking breath. “Laura, it was never _me_ that made Clint want to have kids with you. It was always you.”

 

“That’s not true, Natasha, and you know it,” Laura says, a little more sharply than she means to. Natasha’s eyelashes flicker slightly, but her gaze stays steady. “You were always part of the equation. I might have made it possible, but you know as well as I do that he’s always wanted to be a parent with you.”

 

Her words land hard, and Natasha can’t quite contain her flinch. “You say it like you were some kind of surrogate for us,” she says, a hint of ice touching the words, and Laura shakes her head.

 

“I know I wasn’t,” she says, and means it. “But you can’t tell me he never brought it up.”

 

Natasha’s lips part, and she’s quiet for a few seconds. “Only once,” she says finally, her voice soft. “But he already knew that I couldn’t--” She breaks off, clears her throat, her eyes bright at the corners. Instinctively, Laura reaches over and brushes the tears away, and Natasha closes her eyes, leaning into the touch for a moment. Her skin is soft against Laura’s fingertips, and a small shudder passes through Natasha’s shoulders before she draws away. “Laura, if you want another baby, you should talk to Clint,” she says, and her voice is steady, despite the moisture still shining in her eyes. “You two have made amazing parents together. If nothing else, that should let Clint know that you can do it without me.”

 

“Just because we can doesn’t mean we want to,” Laura says. It slips out, selfish and soft, and Natasha gives a quiet, slightly bitter laugh.

 

“I know,” she says, and the smile she gives Laura is sad, but firm. “Trust me, Laura, I know.”

 

 _So stay_ , Laura wants to tell her--wants to plead, really, to take Natasha’s hands in hers and hold her fast. But she and Clint have decided, in soft whispers, over and over again, to let Natasha take this at her own pace, and even if she never comes home for real, it has to be her choice. Since New York, Clint has been even firmer about it.

 

“The choice is the most important thing,” he’d told her over coffee after yet another nightmare, his knuckles nearly white as they curled around his mug. “I didn’t get it before, but now I do.”

 

Laura had sighed. “I wish I could understand,” she murmured, and Clint’s eyes had flashed.

 

“I’m glad you don’t.”

 

Now, she watches the afternoon sun glitter off the small gold arrow pendant that rests in the arrow of Natasha’s throat. It had been Natasha’s Chanukah gift from them--from the whole family, they’d told her, to remind her that she had a home with them. Natasha’s expression had been knowing, but her eyes had glowed with warmth as Clint had clasped the necklace around her neck, and since they’d given it to her, Laura has never seen her without it. She smiles softly, reaching out to touch it. “You’ll still be Aunt Nat,” she says, more of a statement than a question. “Right?”

 

Natasha covers her hand with hers. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away,” she says, not a promise, but close enough.

 

In the end, she tells Clint almost by accident. They’re in bed, Laura working her way through a crossword and Clint mostly-engrossed in a novel, when Clint’s phone chimes on the bedside table. It’s after ten, and Laura raises her eyebrows at him as he opens the message, reads it, and snorts. “What?”

 

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “SHIELD gossip from May. Apparently Anderson in accounting is pregnant again.”

 

“Again?” Laura echoes. “How many does she have?”

 

“This’ll be six,” Clint says, and Laura winces. She thinks she can feel her uterus shriek out an objection. Clint chuckles. “Yeah, that’s what I said. I love kids as much as the next guy, but that’s too damn many.”

 

“It is a lot,” Laura says. And then, because it’s as much of an opportunity as any, she plunges ahead. “But three’s reasonable, right?”

 

The look Clint gives her is so deer in the headlights that she laughs. “Laura,” he sputters. “Are you--I thought we were--”

 

Laura takes pity on him. “I’m not,” she says, touching his hand gently. “Relax.” Relief floods his face, and he slumps back against the pillows. “I was thinking about it, though,” she says quietly, and he looks at her, startled. “Lila and Cooper are getting older, and I was just thinking...It might be nice, to have one more, before the age gap gets too wide.”

 

Clint presses his lips together, uncertainty and hesitation and insecurity warring in his eyes. “When,” he begins, and then pauses, clenching and unclenching his fingers. It’s a nervous habit that’s picked up over the past year, and she slips her hands into both of his. He gives her a faint smile. “When were you thinking?”

 

“I hadn’t really,” she admits. “But in the next year, maybe?” Clint looks down at the blankets, and Laura squeezes his hands gently, trying to ground him back to her. “Hey,” she says. “Where’s your head, Hawkeye?”

 

“Here with you, ma’am,” he says immediately, his lips twitching, and Laura laughs quietly, leaning over to kiss his forehead. She shifts to lean her head against his shoulder, and Clint wraps an arm around her, carding his fingers gently through his hair. She waits patiently, giving him time to think, and a long few minutes pass before he speaks again. “I don’t think I’m ready yet,” he says finally. “There’s still too much...Too much stuff happening. I’m not back to _me_ yet, and I want to be able to be there for our kids, to be completely there. It’s not fair to bring another one into the world before that happens.”

 

It’s a calmer, more thought-out answer than she’d expected. A disappointing one, too, but she can’t fault his logic, and kisses the fabric of his t-shirt over his heart. “Okay,” she agrees. And then, because she’s a little selfish, she asks, “But someday?”

 

“Yeah,” he says, kissing the top of her head. “Someday.” He’s quiet for another moment, and then speaks again, uncertainty soft in his voice. “Do you think--Could we name the next one after Nat?”

 

 _That_ takes her by surprise, and she lifts her head to look at him. “After Natasha?” He nods, and she frowns slightly, curling her wedding band around her finger. “It’s not really...It’s not really traditional, to name a baby after someone who’s still alive.”

 

“Not all of her is,” Clint says. He takes her hand, toying with her ring himself. His own is back on his finger, has been since he left SHIELD after New York. She likes seeing it there, likes feeling it’s cool weight against her skin. “She left so many Natashas behind over the years, so many parts of herself. All those Natashas that had to fight and die so that she could be _our_ Natasha.” He runs his thumb gently across her knuckles. “They deserve to be honored, I think. I think we should be the ones to do it.”

 

Laura thinks about that, slightly taken aback by the logic there, and sifts through her long-held beliefs about naming and traditions to really hear what he’s saying, the soft passion that runs in an undercurrent through his words. At the base of it, she realizes, is a simple truth: without the Natashas that their Natasha left behind, red-haired corpses littering the years behind her, there would be no Nat, no Tasha. And without Nat, Laura knows, there would be no Clint, not the way he is today, and there would be no Clint and Laura, no Cooper and Lila.

 

Those Natashas do deserve recognition. Laura leans forward and kisses him, softly, sweetly. “Yes,” she says. “You’re right. We should.”

 

Clint smiles, then, bright and real, and she wonders how long that’s been weighing on his mind. Then she has to leave wondering behind as he cups her face in his hands and kisses her properly, deep and lingering and thorough, pressing her back against the pillow. One of his hands trails down, feather-light and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, and she shudders as he breaks the kiss to begin tracing a path of lighter ones down her jaw and neck. “I thought you didn’t want another one yet,” she teases.

 

“I don’t,” he says, lifting his head, and his eyes are glinting and wicked. “But there’s no reason we can’t practice.”

 

Laura laughs, drapes her arms around his neck, and pulls him down to her.

 

**2015**

 

Laura kept dinner simple, going for comfort food over a labor-intensive project. Lila and Cooper still seemed disappointed over Wanda leaving, and Clint had an air of moodiness to him as well--though, she hoped, dicing onions for tomato sauce, hopefully Natasha could beat some of that out of him.

 

Still, she mused, sliding the onion off her knife and into the olive oil heating in her saucepan, it was hard to blame them. They'd all gotten attached to Wanda with a fierceness that had taken Laura somewhat by surprise. It was only a matter of time before the kids picked up Clint's penchant for adopting strays--there was a reason he wasn't allowed to visit the Humane Society without her supervision--but she'd surprised herself at how much she herself had wanted to keep the young woman there with them at the farm. Something in Wanda had touched Laura to her very soul, and it had been harder than she'd expected to let her go.

 

She made a mental note to not let her mother find out about that. She'd never hear the end of it.

 

Bouncing footsteps on the stairs made her glance up in time to see Lila come into the kitchen. "I picked out all my outfits," she announced, climbing up onto a stool so that she could see what Laura was doing.

 

"Thank you," Laura said, slicing a piece of bell pepper and offering it to her. Lila took it, munching happily, and Laura smiled. "Are you going to be the best-dressed kid at summer camp again?"

 

"Yes," Lila said, matter-of-fact.

 

Laura chuckled. She didn't know where Lila had gotten her sense of utter self-assurance, but she was glad she had it. "I'm sure the other kids will be very jealous."

 

"It's okay, mommy," Lila said, sitting down on the stool and resting her elbows on the counter, plopping her chin in her hands. "You’ll look the nicest when you come to get me."

 

"Oh?" Laura raised her eyebrows.

 

Lila nodded. "You're always pretty," she said. "Even when you had Nate in your tummy and you got big like a balloon."

 

Laura nearly choked on the bite of pepper she'd taken. "A balloon?" She echoed.

 

Lila nodded brightly. "A very big balloon," she confirmed.

 

Laura snorted. "Thanks, dear," she said. "I'll remind you about that comment when you decide that you want to be a mommy."

 

Lila made a face. "No," she said. "I don't want to be a balloon. I'll be a mommy like Auntie Nat!"

 

Laura froze, tipping her cutting board into the pan and sending the peppers into the sizzling oil before looking back at her daughter. "Lila," she said carefully, "Auntie Nat is different from being a mommy."

 

She hated to say it, and every cell in her body screamed in protest, because her heart still--after all these years--wanted to tell Lila that Nat was _supposed_ to be her mother, just like Laura was. But that wasn't the life Natasha had chosen, and as much as it killed her, she knew she had to respect that.

 

Lila, it seemed, had no such qualms. "I know it's _different_ ," she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Because we didn't come out of her tummy. But she's not a boy so we don't call her daddy, and Lexi in my class has a tummy mommy and another mommy but that seems confusing so she calls her other mommy mama, but we call Auntie Nat Auntie Nat and not mama. Cooper says he used to call her mama because she used to live here all the time, but now she doesn't so he called her Auntie Nat instead."

 

Laura stared at her, not sure how to respond. "You and Cooper talked about this?" She managed weakly.

 

"Uh-huh." Lila chewed thoughtfully on the end of one of her braids. Absent-minded, Laura reached out and took it out of her mouth. "Cos he was doing his family tree with Joey Reynolds and I said he didn't have Auntie Nat on it. And Joey said that aunties had to be somebody's sister but Auntie Nat isn’t your sister and she isn’t Daddy’s sister but we still call her Auntie Nat because she loves you and she loves Daddy but she doesn’t live with us like Lexi’s other mommy so we call her Auntie.”

 

“Yes, but--” Laura swallowed, taking a careful breath. “The way Auntie Nat loves us is different from the way Lexi’s mommies love each other.”

 

Lila frowned. “Are you sure?”

 

Damn her insightful children, Laura thought. “Lexi’s mommies are married to each other,” she said. “Just like Mommy and Daddy are.”

 

“But Jenny’s daddy has a girlfriend and they aren’t married but they still love each other,” Lila said, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes.

 

Her expression was Clint’s in perfect miniature. Laura wondered if she could get away with knocking her head against a wall. “I know that, sweetheart,” she said. “But it’s...It’s different, okay?”

 

Lila regarded her for another moment, her lips pouted, and then, slowly, tilted her head to one side, her brow furrowing almost quizzically. “How come you look sad?”

 

“I…” Laura hesitated, and realized that her eyes were stinging at the corners. She touched a trembling hand to her eye and brushed the tears away. “It’s a long story, sweetheart,” she said, swallowing and reaching across the counter to touch Lila’s cheek. “And I’ll tell you all about it someday.”

 

“Not now?” Lila looked disappointed.

 

“No, honey, not now.” Laura patted the counter. “Right now, you’re going to help me make pasta sauce for dinner, okay? How about that?”

 

Lila brightened. “Can I stir?”

 

“You can,” Laura allowed, and Lila grinned.

 

Half an hour later, Lila had gotten bored with stirring, but Cooper had taken over for her, helping Laura season the sauce. “I think we’re just about perfect,” she said, kissing his cheek. “I’m going to put up our pasta water now. Can you go outside and get Dad and Auntie Nat from the barn, please? They’re going to want to shower before dinner.”

 

“Okay.” Cooper climbed down off the stepstool--he barely needed it now, Laura thought with a pang, that child was too damn tall--and headed to the front door to pull on his sneakers.

 

“Mommy, I think we should have ice cream for dessert,” Lila said from the floor, where she was sitting beside Nate’s rocker, playing with the baby’s toes while he cooed happily at her.

 

“Do you, now?” Laura asked, raising her eyebrows as she set a large pot of water on the stove to boil. “I don’t know. We may have to put it to a family vote.”

 

Lila made a face. “But Daddy will want pie.”

 

“Daddy always wants pie,” Laura agreed, chuckling. “But we don’t have any pie, so he might have to settle.”

 

“What if he wants you to make some?”

 

“That will just have to be tough cookies,” Laura said. "Daddy can make his own pie, if he wants it so much.”

 

The front door opened, and Laura craned her neck to see Cooper come inside and pull his shoes off, his back to the kitchen. "Mission accomplished?" She called.

 

"Uh-huh." Cooper went upstairs, his shoulders slightly stuff. Laura raised her eyebrows, but let him go, glancing at Lila.

 

"Can you clear the table for me, sweetheart?"

 

Lila nodded, climbing to her feet with a last wiggle of Nate's toes and padding agreeably over to the table to start clearing away the piles of random papers and toys and baby things that managed to accumulate there throughout the day. She hummed to herself as she moved, and Laura smiled, watching her with a touch of wistful gratitude. They hadn't had the easiest time of things over the last few years, but somehow she'd still ended up with happy, well-adjusted children. She wasn't sure how it had happened, but she certainly wasn't going to take it for granted.

 

A flicker of movement caught her eye out the kitchen window and she turned to see Clint and Natasha making their way inside from the barn.

 

She caught her breath.

 

Even from here, she could see sweat glistening on their skin, the flush on their cheeks. Natasha wore only a sports bra and shorts, and Laura swallowed at the shimmer of perspiration along the flat panes of her abdomen, too distracted to feel the usual pang of regret that after three children, her stomach would probably never look like that again. She shifted her gaze to Clint, taking in the way his t-shirt clung damply to his skin and the way the sun glinted on his hair.

 

Her cheeks felt warm, and she knew it had nothing to do with the heat in the kitchen.

 

She lost sight of them as they reached the porch. Giving herself a little shake, she busied herself with digging a box of pasta out of the pantry, only looking up again when the front door opened.

 

"Hi, Auntie Nat!" Lila exclaimed. "Did you beat Daddy up?"

 

Laura glanced over to find Natasha grinning and Clint giving his daughter an offended look. "I did indeed," Natasha said, catching Laura's eye and winking. "But now I'm going to go take a shower, because I'm very very gross."

 

"Okay," Lila said. "We're having pasta for dinner!"

 

"Sounds good," Natasha said. She glanced at Laura. "Need me for anything?"

 

A good many things, Laura thought, but shook her head. "Go ahead," she said. "I just wanted to make sure you'd have time to shower."

 

Natasha nodded, scratching the top of Lila's head lightly before heading up the stairs. Clint watched her go, not subtly, and then came into the kitchen. "Hey," he said.

 

Laura looked at him. This close, she could see the flush on his cheeks, the slight redness of his lips. A spark flickered in her belly. "Hey," she said.

 

Clint cleared his throat slightly. "Lila," he said, "run upstairs and play for a few minutes, will you?"

 

Lila frowned. "Why?"

 

Clint didn't take his eyes from Laura's. "Because I want to kiss your mother, and you're going to think it's very gross."

 

"Ew," Lila said, making a face, and all but dashed out of the room.

 

Her footsteps pounded on the stairs, and Laura found herself swept into Clint's arms and pressed against the counter, his lips on hers. Her surprised squeak was lost between their mouths, but she wound her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. His mouth tasted different, and she realized with a startled jolt that he tasted like Natasha's Chapstick. The sudden recognition swept the spark in her belly into a flame and she dragged him closer to her, dropping one arm from around his neck to slip under his t-shirt and curl around his hip, just brushing the waistband of his shorts.

 

He broke the kiss with a sharp intake of breath at her touch, resting his forehead against hers. "Hi," he said hoarsely.

 

"Mm," Laura said. She squeezed his hip and he shifted slightly under her touch, a familiar motion she recognized as an attempt to keep from thrusting toward her. She resisted the urge to reach down and grope him. "How was your fight?"

 

The question came out breathless and faint, and Clint dropped his head down to her shoulder, muffling a groan against the skin of her neck. “She’s killing me, Laura.”

 

“With her mouth?” Laura drew light circles with her fingertips over the skin of his back, and he shuddered, nodding grumpily. Laura laughed softly, not sure whether to be jealous or not given his current state. She wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him briefly before pushing him away from her. “What happened?”

 

Clint leaned back against the counter, attempting to adjust himself through his shorts to make his erection slightly less obvious. “Same thing that used to happen when we’d spar,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “Winning’s her favorite aphrodisiac.”

 

Laura shivered slightly. “I remember,” she said. “But you two have been sparring since...since she left. I know she’s been a little more affectionate this visit, but it’s not like…” She trailed off, then gave herself a little shake. “What changed?”

 

He snorted. “You’ll have to ask her.”

 

“I just might,” she said, sweeping a leering look over him, and he groaned, dropping his head back.

 

“ _Laura_ , come on. Give a guy a break.”

 

She chuckled, reaching to give him a brief squeeze through his shorts--he made a strangled noise and batted her hand away--and then shoved his shoulder. “Go take a shower,” she said. “On your own, if you can manage it.”

 

Clint made a face at her. “I’ll do what I can,” he said, and swatted her bottom before disappearing up the stairs.

 

A few moments later, Lila poked her head back into the kitchen. “Are you done being gross?” She asked distrustfully.

 

Laura laughed, stirring the pasta. “For the moment,” she said. “Come on. Help me set the table.”

 

**2014**

 

 _SHIELD is Hydra. Hydra is SHIELD_. _Nick Fury is dead._

 

Natasha’s head spins. She leans against the wall of Sam Wilson’s shower, staring at a crack in the grout, because if she closes her eyes she thinks she might throw up.

 

 _SHIELD is Hydra_. _Nick Fury is dead_.

 

Steve is keeping it together better than she is. The entire drive back from what was left of the bunker in New Jersey, jumping from stolen car to stolen car, had passed in a stunned silence, but Steve’s shoulders had set, his jaw firm. His tight expression showed anger, not anguish, and that made sense--he’d respected Fury, Natasha knows, but hadn’t had much love for him. But SHIELD had been Peggy Carter’s legacy, and Hydra had rotted it from the inside out.

 

But Natasha feels sick to her stomach. She had torn herself away from the Red Room, fought her way out of the KGB, and when Ivan had twisted her mind and brought her back in, SHIELD--through Clint--had been her salvation.

 

Clint. She curls her hands into fists. Does he know yet? She doesn’t know if she should contact him or not. As long as he’s on the farm, he’s safe, off the grid, not in SHIELD’s sights or Hydra’s. Calling him could put him in more danger than he might be in now, and Laura and the kids as well--

 

The idea makes her shudder, and she gives herself a jolt; makes herself fumble for the bottle of shampoo Sam had dug out of his bathroom cabinet for her--“Been awhile since there’s been anyone with that much hair showering here,” he’d said, sheepish--just because washing her hair is something to do that isn’t standing around trying to get her thoughts to stop ricocheting around her head like bullets.

 

She thinks about the last time she saw Nick Fury alive--not bleeding out on an operating table, but really alive. They’d shared a drink in his office after she brought back the drive from the Lumerian Star. He’d teased her about Clint, asked if she thought he’d be jealous that she and Rogers had finally learned to click. He’d called her _Romanoff_ in the way that Steve called her _Nat_ , with familiarity and fondness (not like Clint called her _Nat_ , wrapped in so many layers of feeling, spread over decades), he’d laughed at her _Steve the fossil_ jokes and clinked his drink with hers.

 

Clint doesn’t know, she realizes with a sudden start, and nearly drops the bottle of shampoo. Clint is at home with Laura and the kids, and he thinks that Nick Fury, one of his closest friends in SHIELD, is alive and well and probably making himself a pain in some government official’s ass. Her stomach twists as she remembers what a wreck he was when she told him about Coulson, and she wants to leave him in blissful ignorance, until she absolutely has to rip it away.

 

But she’d waited to tell him about Coulson and in the end he’d heard it from Fury, and he’d been furious with her for not telling him. She closes her eyes, tipping her head back under the spray to rinse out the shampoo. No.

 

She has to tell him.

 

Steve comes into the room while she’s toweling off off her hair in Sam’s bedroom, perched on the edge of his bed. “Hey,” he says. His eyes rest briefly on the glint of silver around her neck--her necklace, she realizes; she hasn’t taken it off--before coming up to her face. “You okay?”

 

Natasha swallows. “Yeah.”

 

Steve’s look says he plainly doesn’t believe her, and she can’t blame him. Some spy she is, with everything knocked out from under her. “What’s going on?”

 

He asks the question like he actually cares about the answer, and it’s Steve, so he probably does. She hesitates, half a moment, and then tells him the truth, really tells the truth, because even though SHIELD was better by miles than any of the other agencies that had held her leash, they’d still had her lying, and now she doesn’t know who she was lying for, Hydra or SHIELD. And Steve just smiles, because despite everything he seems to trust her, and for the first time since Nick Fury coded on the table, things seem like they might be okay.

 

Sam pokes his head into the room, and the moment breaks. “I made breakfast,” he says, and cocks one eyebrow. “If you guys eat that sort of thing.”

 

Despite herself, she snorts. Sam Wilson is one of the most immediately likeable people she has ever met--and given the time she’s been alive, that’s saying something--but his likeability isn’t charisma or charm or something equally shallow, it’s an innate quality that makes it instantly clear that he’s just a _good person_. It’s the same almost aggressive goodness that Steve seems to radiate but without the deep-seated desperation to prove himself _good enough_ , there’s a self-assurance to him that Steve doesn’t have, but clearly finds himself drawn to. Natasha can see why. Part of her wants to drag him back to the farm and get him to spend a few hours talking sense into Clint.

 

The funniest part is that he probably wouldn’t even need to be dragged.

 

“We do eat breakfast,” she says, putting the towel down and pushing her hair back. “But what I’d really like is a secure phone line.” She raises her eyebrows at him. Likeable as he is, he’s not Steve, and she doesn’t trust him enough to peel back her layers for him. “Don’t suppose you’ve got one of those lying around with the pancakes?”

 

Sam shrugs. “Not with the pancakes,” he says. “But I’ve got a bag of burner phones that I took off one of the VA guys when he told me he was thinking about getting into dealing. Would that work?”

 

It’s not what she’d expected, but it’s more than good enough. “Perfect,” she agrees, and Sam grins, going to rummage through his closet.

 

Steve gives her a look. “Something I should know about, Romanoff?”

 

She shakes her head. “Checking in on a few contacts,” she says, and it’s not a lie, not really. “Need to know who we can trust.”

 

Steve narrows his eyes, but after a moment, nods. “I’ll take one of those, too,” he says to Sam, who emerges from the closet with a rumpled black duffle bag. “See if I can raise Stark on the phone. He might be useful, if it ends up as a real fight.”

 

Natasha cocks a eyebrow at that. “Are you sure? Pepper said he’s not...at his best, right now.”

 

“I know,” Steve says, catching the phone Sam tosses him with barely a glance. “But we might need all the help we can get.”

 

Steve follows Sam to the kitchen to get started on breakfast and make his calls, and Natasha shuts the door to the bedroom, turning the old but still clearly functional Nokia on and dialing Clint’s cell number from memory. He’s broken more phones over the years than she can count, but always keeps the same number, to make things easier on Laura and the kids. Lila’s nearly old enough to recite it from memory, when her preschool teachers ask her.

 

The phone rings, and rings, and rings, and Natasha’s nails have very nearly drawn blood from her palms when Clint picks up. “--not going to tell you again,” he’s saying, his Stern Dad voice, and Natasha nearly laughs in relief and amusement when he abruptly switches tones to professionally wary. “Hello?”

 

“It’s me,” she says.

 

“Nat?” His voice changes again, goes light and warm, the way it always does when she calls, and she closes her eyes, sinks down onto Sam’s bed. “What’s up? What number are you calling from?”

 

“It’s a burner,” she says, swallowing. “Clint, I need to tell you something. Are you alone? With the kids?” She doesn’t even know what day it is.

 

“What? No. It’s Sunday, Nat, Laura’s home. We just finished lunch.” The puzzled frown hovers along the edges of his words. “Nat, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

 

“Yes. No.” She takes a breath. On the end of the line, Clint is quiet, patient, waiting for her, and she’s glad of it. “Go outside. You’re not going to want to be near them, when you hear this.”

 

“Okay.” No argument; he trusts her immediately, and it puts a lump in her throat. He calls to Laura; lets her know he’s stepping out onto the porch, and she waits until she hears the swing and click of the front door. “I’m outside,” he says. “What’s going on, Tasha?”

 

“Don’t call me Tasha,” she says, and it comes out in a whisper, almost choked. “Not now. I can’t, Clint.”

 

“Alright. I’m sorry.” He takes a breath. “What is it?”

 

She tries to think of a way to soften the blow, but that’s never been things work between them. “Nick’s dead.”

 

Clint says nothing. He goes silent, too silent, for too long. Natasha swallows, whispers, “Clint?”

 

“How.”

 

The words are flat--not emotionless, but holding emotion back. Clint has always known, even when he’s ignored it, when there’s time to feel, and when there isn’t. She takes a breath. “An assassin,” she says, curling her free hand into a fist. “Sent by Hydra.”

 

“Hydra?” This time she can hear the surprise in his voice. “Those--pseudo-Fascists with the fucked up logo?”

 

It’s a strange thing to focus on, and she blinks. “Fucked up logo?”

 

“A hydra has four legs and a bunch of heads. The Hydra logo has one head and a bunch of legs--it’s a fucking octopus.”

 

For some reason, it makes her laugh, exhausted and desperate and almost humorless. God, she needs him, she needs her _partner_ back. “Clint, it’s SHIELD,” she says. “Hydra’s been embedded in SHIELD since the beginning.”

 

Clint swears, all humor gone from his voice. “Tell me.”

 

She gives the abbreviated version of what she and Steve had found in the bunker in New Jersey, and Clint listens silently, no interruptions, and that alone tells her that he’s not just calculating, he’s _pissed_.

 

She gets that. SHIELD has had his loyalty longer than it’s had hers, and Clint’s loyalty is hard to earn.

 

“Where are you now?” He asks when she’s finished.

 

“Back in DC,” she says, smoothing her fingers over the pattern of Sam’s duvet. “Hiding out with a friend of Cap’s.”

 

“Stay there,” he says, and through the phone, she can hear his footsteps. “I’m on my way.”

 

“No,” she says sharply.

 

“ _No_?” He repeats, incredulous. “Nat, you need backup, you can’t take down Hydra and SHIELD on your own--”

 

“You’ve been out of the game,” she says, and it comes out desperate, thicker than she’d intended, tight with emotion. “You’re out of practice, Clint, you haven’t been training--”

 

“Fuck you, Natasha, I can hold my own,” he retorts, but she cuts him off.

 

“Laura and the kids need you there, if you’re gone, no one’s making sure Hydra doesn’t get to them.”

 

“The farm’s not on SHIELD’s radar, no way it’s on Hydra’s--”

 

“And if you get here and Hydra takes you out?” She snaps, furious now, on her feet. “Clint, they need you alive.”

 

“I know what I’m doing--”

 

“Clint, _I need you alive_.”

 

He stops.

 

She stops.

 

For a few moments they’re silent on opposite ends of the phone line. She can hear his breathing, shaking and soft, and her own heartbeat, pounding in her ears. Natasha closes her eyes, takes a breath. “Clint.”

 

“Okay.”

 

He says it softly--not defeated, but gentle. She swallows. “Okay?”

 

“Okay.” He exhales quietly. “What’s your plan?”

 

“I don’t know yet.” She sits down again, her legs feeling almost too weak to hold her up, and runs her fingertips over the pendant in the hollow of her throat.

 

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he says, and she laughs wearily. “I mean it, Natasha.”

 

“I know,” she says, and can’t help smiling. “I know.”

 

“I need you alive, too.”

 

He says it in the way he used to say _I’m lucky to have you_ , the words he used instead of _I love you_ , because she never let him say that, but now, selfishly and strangely and after she’s more than lost the right to it, she wishes she could hear it from him. “I know,” she repeats, because if she says anything deeper than that, she’ll lose it. “I’ll contact you when I can.”

 

“Good,” he says. “I--” He breaks off, then and clears his throat. “Good.”

 

She hangs up the phone and tilts her head back to the ceiling. She keeps her eyes wide, because if she closes them, the tears threatening at the corners of her lashes will fall, and she doesn’t have time for that, not even close.

 

There’s a knock at the door, and she looks up as Steve pokes his head in. “Hey,” he says. “Breakfast’s getting cold.” He glances at the phone. “Who was that, anyway?”

 

Natasha swallows. “No one,” she says, and follows him to the kitchen with her shoulders set, and her chin high, and the arrowhead cool and steadying at her throat.

 

**2014**

 

Two months after the fall of SHIELD, Nick Fury shows up at the farm.

 

Clint greets him with a punch to the face.

 

Technically speaking, he greets him with a handshake, and takes a moment to assess his healing process, because he _did_ almost die. But then he punches him in the face with two months of pent-up anger, and feels a distinct curl of satisfaction when Fury sprawls out on his back.

 

“You’ve got a hell of a lot of nerve,” he says ten minutes later, handing Fury an icepack for the swelling that’s already puffing the skin around his eye.

 

Fury snorts, slapping the pack on his eye with one hand and taking a swig of the beer Clint had given him first--priorities--with the other. “Don’t I know it,” he says. “Needed a place to lie low for awhile.”

 

Clint sits down across from him, picking up his own bottle. Laura’s at a professional day at school, Cooper at summer camp, and Lila gone for the day at a playdate, so they’ve got the house to themselves to speak freely, at least for now. “And you think I’m giving it to you? After the shit you pulled?”

 

“Gonna have to be more specific, Barton,” Fury says.

 

“You let Natasha think you were dead,” Clint says flatly. He’d been as relieved as Natasha to know that Fury was alive, and just as pissed. “You let her think you were dead, and you threw her to the fucking wolves.”

 

Fury narrows his eye at him, but shakes his head. “That was need-to-know,” he says, utterly unapologetic. “Had to wait until I knew who to trust.”

 

“And you didn’t trust _Nat_?” His voice rises, and he forces himself to bring it back down. “She’s been nothing but loyal to you, to SHIELD, since I brought her in.”

 

“Right,” Fury says. “And why was that, again, _Agent_ Barton?”

 

He says it icily, and Clint tightens his grip around his bottle. “Knew she wasn’t acting under her own control,” he says. “You know that.”

 

Fury takes a drink. “Funny thing about loyalty, Barton,” he says, “is that loyalty to one thing can look a lot like loyalty to another.”

 

Clint tamps down on a prickle of defensiveness. “What are you implying?”

 

“That I don’t think Natasha Romanoff’s first loyalty was ever to SHIELD,” Fury says. “I think it was to you. I think it was to you before you ever brought her into my office, and every day since.”

 

He says it matter-of-fact, no trace of hurt or anger, and he looks at Clint, a deep, knowing gaze that leaves no room for mistaking his meaning. Clint waits for the surge of panic and protectiveness and denial, but it doesn’t come. He takes a steadying breath, takes a drink of his beer, and returns Fury’s look with a calm that takes him by surprise. “How long have you known?”

 

If Fury feels at all smug about Clint’s confirmation, it doesn’t show on his face. He takes another drink. “Suspected from the beginning,” he says. “Got it confirmed after New York.”

 

Clint startles at that. “After New York?”

 

“She went from one of my most competent agents to playing babysitter for months,” Fury says. “I don’t care how much you like your partner, you don’t do that unless there’s something more at play. And you don’t wear a necklace that’s about as subtle as a beacon.” He regards Clint for a long moment, like he’s not sure what he wants to say next, and then cocks a brow. “Does your wife know?”

 

“I don’t keep secrets from Laura.” It doesn’t answer the question Fury asked, not that Clint wouldn’t answer it, but he’s feeling petty. “Part of our vows.”

 

“I’ll bet,” Fury says dryly. “Just how far _do_ you and Romanoff go back? Couldn’t help noticing there was no mention of her anywhere in your file, but loyalty like that doesn’t come out of nowhere.”

 

“Far enough.” Clint runs his thumb over the condensation on his bottle, just to have something to do with his hands. He’d underestimated Fury, he realizes, and doesn’t like the feeling. “But you’re wrong.”

 

Fury eyes him over the rim of his bottle. “Yeah? About what?”

 

“About Natasha.” Clint takes a drink. “She’s always believed in SHIELD. Even before she was part of it. If you ever knew her at all, you wouldn’t have needed to question her loyalties.” He holds Fury’s gaze, steady. “And even when she didn’t believe in SHIELD, she believed in you.” He downs the rest of his bottle, and climbs to his feet, carrying it to the sink to rinse it for recycling. “You can sleep on the couch in the study,” he says over his shoulder. “And I want all your weapons. There’s kids in this house, and we don’t let guns drift around. Laura’ll kill you with her bare hands if she finds something unsecured.”

 

“Fair enough,” Fury agrees, and starts unloading weapons onto the table. Clint doesn’t bother being surprised at the sheer number of them. In some ways, Fury’s the same as he ever was, and Clint can’t help being just a little bit grateful for it.

 

When Natasha turns up two weeks later, Fury’s on the living room couch with Lila in his lap, doing an absolutely deadpan reading of _Mirette on the Highwire_ , which Lila is completely enamored by and demands several times a day. She stops dead inside the door, her face blank. “What,” she begins flatly, “the--”

 

Clint isn’t sure if she was planning to end with _hell_ or _fuck_ or something equally eloquent in Russian, and doesn’t get to find out, because Lila looks up and spots her. “Auntie Nat!” she shrieks, clamoring off Fury’s lap and racing into Natasha’s arms. “Hi!”

 

Natasha hasn’t been home since a month before SHIELD fell, one of the longest absences she’s ever had from them. Any irritation she’d been planning to unleash at Fury drains away as she sweeps Lila up and into her arms, holding her close. “Hello, little bird,” she whispers, barely loud enough for Clint’s hearing aids to pick it up. “I missed you.”

 

“I missed _you_ ,” Lila declares, and then wriggles out of Natasha’s grip. “Do you know Grandpa Nick? Daddy says he knows you!”

 

“I do,” Natasha says. She shoots Clint a look and mouths _Grandpa Nick?_ , and he shakes his head helplessly. Clint had made one _take it easy, Gramps_ comment a day into Fury’s stay, and as far as Lila’s concerned, he’s been Grandpa Nick since. “Healing up, sir?”

 

“Getting there, Agent Romanoff,” Fury says, putting the book on the coffee table and leveling himself to his feet.

 

Natasha snorts. “It’s just Romanoff, now,” she says. “Not an agent anymore.”

 

“Auntie Nat, you can be _my_ agent,” Lila says, beaming up at her.

 

Natasha’s face softens, and she touches Lila’s cheek. “Thank you,” she says quietly. She glances at Clint. “Where’s your better half?”

 

“Cooper had a dentist appointment,” Clint says, looking her over. She looks tired and a little drawn, but there’s a brightness to her eyes that she didn’t have the last time he’d Skyped with her, just after SHIELD’s collapse. It’s a hint of her old spark, and warm relief curls through his chest. “They’ll be home in an hour or so. He had to have a cavity filled.”

 

“Too many sugar,” Lila says, solemnly.

 

“Too much many sugar,” Clint corrects, wincing at the thought of dental drills. There’s a reason why Laura handles dentist appointments. Clint’d take a bullet to the chest before he’d watch a man with a drill standing over his kid, no matter how nice Laura insists Dr. Kwan is. “And we’re going to be really nice to Cooper when he gets home, right? Because he had to go to the dentist?”

 

Lila nods, clambering her way back to Fury and pushing him firmly back onto the couch, climbing back into his lap. “Read again,” she demands, picking up the book from the table and handing it to him. Clint clears his throat, and Lila adds, “Please?”

 

Fury regards her with a narrowed eye, and Lila stares him down with more confidence than most SHIELD agents. Clint bites his lip against a laugh. After a moment, Fury concedes the point and takes the book. “One hundred years ago in Paris,” he begins, and Lila grins smugly, curling into his lap like he’s a comfortable teddy bear, not one of the deadliest spies on the planet.

 

Clint’s not sure if he should be very proud or very nervous about that sort of bravery.

 

When Laura gets home, she beelines to Natasha so quickly that Clint almost feels a little neglected, wrapping her in a fierce hug. Natasha closes her eyes and leans into the embrace, clutching at the fabric of Laura’s shirt with an almost desperate tightness, and for a long, long time, they just stand there, holding each other.

 

Laura’s eyes are shining when she pulls away. “You’re okay,” she says, cupping Natasha’s face in her hands. “You’re okay, right?”

 

Natasha swallows visibly, and nods, moving her head without dislodging Laura’s grip. “I’m getting there,” she says, and Laura pulls her back in.

 

It’s not until later that night, when the kids are in bed and Fury’s on his cell phone on the porch, that Natasha curls up on the couch, draws her knees up to her chest, and shudders so deeply Clint thinks she might fall apart. “Hey,” he says, sitting down beside her. “You with me?”

 

Without lifting her head, Natasha reaches for his hand and pulls his arm around her shoulders. Clint shifts to draw closer to her. Part of him wants to pull her up and settle her into his lap, like he used to, but he holds himself back, lets her set the limits. “I dropped it all, Clint,” she whispers. Her shoulders shake, and he tightens his arm around her. “All of it, out there for the world to see. And I didn’t even think--” Her voice catches, and she shudders again. “I didn’t even _think_ about Laura or the kids. That they could have been in those files. I could have--”

 

Clint starts. “Nat,” he says, and then stops himself, because what he wants to say is, _will you ever stop blaming yourself for things that didn’t happen?_ And he knows, he _knows_ , that it’s not the right time for that. He takes a breath. “They weren’t anywhere in those files,” he says softly. “I made sure of that. More times than I can count.”

 

“SHIELD’s files,” she says, bitter and low. “You don’t know what Hydra had. _Has_.”

 

“You’re right,” he admits. He runs his free hand through his hair and then drapes it around Natasha’s front, pulls her a little closer. “But we’re not defenseless. You know that Laura’s got her own bite, and she’s dropped off the grid at the drop of a hat before.” He feels a tingle of guilt for that, knows that the last time Laura had done that, he’d been shooting his co-workers under Loki’s command. He pushes that down. “And even if we were in those files, Nat--it was what you had to do.”

 

She raises her head, looks at her with wet, blazing eyes. “Put you in danger?” She hisses.

 

“No.” He cups her cheek. “You saved the world.”

 

Natasha looks at him for a long moment, and then gives a low, weary laugh, dropping her head forward to rest against his chest with a _thump_. “So dramatic, Barton.”

 

“Yeah, well.” He kisses the top of her head. “I’m a dramatic guy.”

 

Laura comes in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. “Everyone okay in here?”

 

“We’re having a small emotional crisis,” Clint says, and stifles a yelp when Natasha pinches the skin of his arm between her nails and twists. “ _Ouch_. Jesus, Nat.”

 

“Deserved it,” she mutters, but doesn’t lift her head.

 

Laura laughs softly, coming to sit on Natasha’s other side. She wraps both her arms around Natasha’s shoulders, kissing the back of Natasha’s neck where her hair has parted, exposing her skin. “I’m glad you’re back,” she says softly, almost a murmur. “You stayed away too long.”

 

Natasha curls one hand around Laura’s, squeezes so tight her knuckles go white. “You might be right,” she whispers. She’s quiet for a moment, and when she speaks again, her voice trembles. “Can I stay here? For a little while?”

 

Clint brushes her hair gently back. “As long as you want,” he promises. Natasha twines her fingers into the hem of his t-shirt, and holds on tight.

 

They fall asleep like that, the three of them, curled on the couch, too tired to move. For the first time, Clint lets himself really feel SHIELD’s fall, and it leaves a hole in his chest right next to the one Phil Coulson’s death had carved. Natasha drops off first, sandwiched between him and Laura, one hand in Clint’s shirt and the other clinging to Laura’s, and Laura follows, draped over Natasha’s back and her dark hair spilling over Natasha’s red curls. Clint loses himself in the sweet smell of Laura’s shampoo and the earthier smell of Natasha’s, dozing off slowly, running one thumb over the smooth metal of Laura’s wedding ring where her hand rests over Natasha’s hip.

 

He wakes when the front door opens, his eyes focusing instantly, even in the semidarkness, on Nick Fury’s shadowed form. He holds Fury’s gaze but doesn’t stir, careful to keep himself still, to let Nat and Laura sleep. If the door hasn’t woken them, he’s sure as hell not going to be the one to do it.

 

Fury breaks the silence. “So,” he says softly. “That’s what I missed?” Clint doesn’t respond, just looks at him steadily, and Fury laughs, a low, almost admiring sound. “I underestimated you, Barton,” he says. “You’re a better liar than I gave you credit for.”

 

“Like you said, sir,” Clint says quietly, simply. “Loyalty is a powerful thing.”

 

Fury snorts. “So it is,” he says, not bitter. If anything, he sounds respectful. “Goodnight, Agent Barton.”

 

“Goodnight, sir,” Clint says.

 

He thinks that he should sit there, awake in the dark, for a long time, uneasy about what Fury has just seen, what he’s understood so quickly with just a glance. But it’s been a long day, and Natasha’s weight is heavy and comforting, Laura’s breathing steady and soft. Clint closes his eyes, and lets the warmth of them lull him back to sleep.

 

**2015**

 

Cooper was quiet at dinner.

 

That wasn’t strange. Lila talked constantly at meals--and always--but Cooper was quieter in general, more of a listener than a talker. But tonight he looked troubled, moving his spaghetti moodily around his plate. Clint watched him from across the table, warily wondering if this was a sign of preadolescent days to come.

 

He’d been an absolute _shit_ as a teenager. God help them if Cooper took after him.

 

When Cooper’s face didn’t lighten, even when Lila and Laura started talking playfully about dessert, Clint cleared his throat. “Cooper?” Cooper didn’t look up. “Hey. You okay, buddy?”

 

“What do you care?” Cooper muttered, not taking his eyes off his plate.

 

Clint raised his eyebrows, exchanging a surprised look with Laura. She gave him a significant _absolutely not okay_ narrow of her eyes, and he put his fork down. “I care because I’m your dad,” he said slowly. “It’s part of the job.”

 

Cooper glared at him. “Well, you’re not good at it,” he said, his brown eyes dark and angry.

 

Natasha looked startled. “Cooper,” she said, frowning. “You don’t talk to your dad like that. Can you apologize, please?”

 

Nine times out of ten, the kids responded to instructions from Natasha with the same easy adoration they always showed her. Now, Cooper rounded on her, his expression going from angry to furious. “I don’t have to do what you say!” He said, volume climbing. “You’re not my mom!”

 

Immediate hurt flashed across Natasha’s features before she smoothed it away with a practice that made Clint’s stomach clench. “I know that,” she said calmly. “But that doesn’t mean you can be rude to your father.”

 

“He doesn’t care about us,” Cooper shouted, angry tears standing in his eyes. “He doesn’t care and neither do you and I _hate_ you!”

 

He punctuated the last word by pushing back his chair and bolting for the door.

 

An instant passed in stunned silence as Clint exchanged a shocked stare with Laura and Natasha. Then Lila burst into tears and Clint’s long-honed reflexes kicked in. “I’ll get him,” he said, and ran for the still-open door.

 

It had gotten dark strangely early tonight, and Cooper was barely visible in the lights from the porch, already halfway down the driveway. Clint jumped the porch steps on instinct, taking half a second to wince at the impact on his knees, and started to chase him down. Then he stopped, Laura’s constant reminders about not getting into power struggles with the kids rocketing back into his head. He took a breath, steeled himself, and raised his voice to his son for the first time in his life.

 

“Caleb Gabriel Barton, get back here, _now_.”

 

Cooper froze in his tracks. Clint wasn’t surprised. The number of times he or Laura had called Cooper by his full name could be counted on one hand--Cooper hadn’t even known he _had_ another name until his first day of school.

 

Slowly, Cooper made his way back to Clint waited for him in front of the porch, his arms crossed over his chest. His face was wary and sullen, and he scowled up at Clint when he reached him. “ _What_.”

 

Clint took a deep breath, counting down from five and making sure his voice was gentle when he spoke. “I get that you’re mad about something,” he said. “But no matter how mad you are, you don’t get to make your sister cry, and you do not get to disrespect Natasha, and you do _not_ run away from the house without an adult. Is that clear?”

 

He kept his voice calm but stern, and something in it must have made it clear that he was not messing around, because Cooper swallowed, then nodded. “Okay,” he said, genuine guilt in his tone. “Sorry.”

 

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to,” Clint reminded him. Tears, still angry, but clearly mixed with other emotions that Clint couldn’t quite place, stood in his son’s eyes, and Clint sighed, putting his hands on Cooper’s shoulders. “Cooper, sweetheart,” he said, softly now. “What is this about?”

 

Cooper’s lower lip trembled, and he sniffed. “Are you and Mom gonna get a divorce?”

 

Whatever Clint had been expecting, it wasn’t that. “ _What_?” He started at him, utterly baffled. “No, buddy, of course not. Why would we?”

 

“Because you’re lying to her,” Cooper whispered, tears threatening to spill. “You’re _cheating_.”

 

“What?” His confusion went from bad to worse. “Coop, I’ve never lied to your mom, and I’ve definitely never cheated on her.”

 

His own temper, captured in miniature, flashed across Cooper’s face. “You _are_ ,” he insisted, stamping his foot in frustrated fury. “I _saw_ you.”

 

Clint looked helplessly at him. “Saw _what_?”

 

“You and Auntie Nat! In the barn!”

 

Clint stopped, his blood frozen. Cooper glared up at him. “Oh,” Clint said, lamely, and Cooper kept scowling at him. Clint pushed a hand through his hair. “That’s not…” He sighed. “That’s not what you think, Cooper.”

 

Cooper’s glare darkened. “Yeah _right_.”

 

“I mean it,” Clint said. Cooper’s face didn’t change, and Clint took a deep breath, trying to center himself. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Here’s what’s gonna happen. We’re going to go inside. You’re going to apologize to your sister and to Nat, and then you’re gonna put on some warmer clothes. Then you and me are going to sit out here on the porch and have a long talk.” He held Cooper’s gaze calmly. “Okay?”

 

Cooper hesitated, and Clint raised his eyebrows. “I made it sound like an option,” he said, “but it really wasn’t. Go inside.”

 

Another moment of hesitation, and then Cooper headed back into the house, limping a little on his bare feet, which were probably full of gravel from the driveway. _That’s what you get_ , Clint thought, following him inside.

 

Laura was in the living room, bouncing a fussing Nate in her arms. “Hey,” she said, getting to her feet with a concerned look. She shifted Nate into one arm and cupped Cooper’s cheek. “What’s all this about, love?”

 

Clint shook his head. “We’re going to have a talk,” he said. “Where’s Nat and Lila?”

 

“Upstairs,” Laura said, arching one brow.

 

Clint put a hand on Cooper’s shoulder and nudged. “Go,” he said.

 

Obediently, Cooper headed upstairs.

 

As soon as he was out of sight, Laura turned back to Clint. “What the hell is going on with him?”

 

Clint sat down heavily on the couch, dropping his head into his hands. “Apparently he saw Nat and me in the barn this afternoon,” he mumbled into his hands, feeling like a shit parent. This was what he got for thinking with his dick for five minutes. “So now he thinks I’m cheating on you and that you’re going to divorce me for being a cheating bastard.”

 

Laura sat down next to him. “I can’t imagine he used the words ‘cheating bastard,’” she said dryly. “He might be a little old for his years, but I don’t think he’s quite _that_ old.”

 

“Laura,” he groaned, and Laura chuckled, rubbing his back.

 

“Clint, it was bound to happen eventually.” She pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “At least he saw something when he was old enough to ask about it.”

 

“Throw a fit about it, you mean,” he muttered.

 

“Which is fair. As far as he knew, you _were_ cheating on his mother. Who is, as we know, his favorite person on the planet.”

 

Clint lifted his head and gave her a skeptical look out of the corner of his eye. “A week ago you told me you were going to throw him out the window if he didn’t stop whining about wanting a puppy.”

 

Laura shrugged. “I didn’t say it was always mutual.”

 

Natasha came downstairs, her expression puzzled. “Cooper just apologized for being disrespectful, and then disappeared into his room,” she said, sitting down on the couch on Clint’s other side. “What did I miss?”

 

“Cooper got a look at your little makeout session earlier,” Laura told her. Natasha winced, shooting Clint a dirty look, and he scowled back at her, defensive.

 

“You started it.”

 

“I didn’t hear you complaining,” she retorted, and then sat back, looking troubled. “What are you going to tell him?”

 

Clint closed his eyes, breathing slowly to center himself. Laura’s hand still rested on his back, and he zeroed in on that point of contact. “The truth,” he said, finally. “As much as it as he’s old enough to know. I don’t think anything else’ll satisfy him, and it’s not fair to lie to him, not when he’s asking outright.”

 

Natasha pressed her lips together, and she gave Laura an uneasy glance. “Are you sure?”

 

Laura’s face, though, was calm. “I think it’s a good idea,” she said gently, squeezing Clint’s shoulder and then dropping her hand from him to shift Nate into her other arm. Nate, dozing, didn’t seem bothered by the transition. “He _is_ old enough, and he’s only going to ask more questions.”

 

Natasha looked down at her hands, rubbing one thumb over the first knuckle of her left ring finger. It was a habit she’d dropped, in the years since she’d stopped wearing her rings, but Clint had noticed her picking it up again since she’d been at the house this time around. It probably meant something, but Clint wasn’t sure if he was ready to start making guesses--hopes--about what. “What if--” Her voice caught, and she swallowed before she looked at him again. “What if he’s angry?”

 

“Nat,” Clint said, as gently as he could, “he accused me of cheating on his mom. I don’t think anything could make him angrier than that.”

 

Cooper came back downstairs, dressed in long pants and a flannel shirt, and Clint pointed him to the front door, where his shoes sat by the mat. Cooper hesitated, then nodded and padded over in socked feet to start putting on his sneakers. Clint leaned over, kissed Laura’s cheek, Nate’s forehead, and then, after a moment’s pause, Natasha’s cheek as well. Then he followed Cooper to the door, pulled on his workboots, and led Cooper out onto the porch, closing the door behind them.

 

He put a hand on Cooper’s shoulder, steering him toward the porch swing. Most of the fight seemed to have gone out of Cooper, and he climbed up onto the swing, his feet dangling. Clint sat down next to him, and they sat together in silence for a few minutes, the natural sounds of night chirping and rustling around them. Clint let the quiet moments stretch, getting his thoughts in order.

 

Finally, he spoke. “How much do you remember,” he asked slowly, “about things before Lila was born?”

 

Cooper gave him a curious look, his brown eyes thoughtful in the soft porch lights. “Not a lot,” he said, swinging his feet back and forth. It was more of a Lila motion than a Cooper one, and for some reason, it made Clint smile. “I remember you coming home with bandages a lot. And Mom smiled all the time but I think she only had me to chase after so maybe it was easier. And I remember--” He paused, chewing his bottom lip, and then said, “And I remember Aunt Nat.”

 

“Yeah?” Clint took a deep breath. “What do you remember about Aunt Nat?”

 

“I don’t know.” Cooper looked down at his feet. Clint waited, quiet, watching the thoughtful expression on his son’s face, somewhere between Laura’s and his own. But Natasha’s face was there too, somehow, in the curve of his brows and the pout of his lips. It shouldn’t be possible, and maybe he only saw it because he looked for it, but there it was, nonetheless. “It’s hard to--sometimes I remember stuff, but I’m not sure if it’s really...real. But I remember her being here with us all the time. And she sang me songs when I went to sleep. And I called her--”

 

He broke off, and Clint watched his eyebrows furrow. “You called her Mama Tasha,” Clint said quietly, and Cooper’s gaze snapped back to him, his eyes wide.

 

Cooper looked at him in silence for a long moment, and then wrapped his arms around himself, not quite a self-hug, but close. “I thought I made that up,” he whispered.

 

“No, buddy, you didn’t.” Clint ran a hand through his hair, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Nat used to live with us. And she wasn’t Aunt Nat then. She was your other mom.”

 

Cooper’s expression didn’t change, just hovered along the edges of uncertainty and longing. “I remember--I remember you guys kissing.” He looked at Clint out of the corner of his eye, his face unsure. “You and Nat, but Mom and Nat, too.” He swallowed. “Did that happen, or did I make that up?”

 

“No. It happened.” Clint exhaled slowly. “She was part of our family for a long time, before you, _way_ before Lila.”

 

“Were you…” Cooper frowned. “Were you married?”

 

“Yes. No. Sort of.” Clint set his feet on the porch and used them as leverage to set the swing to rocking gently. “Not legally. That’s not allowed. But we all made promises to each other. Your mom and Nat and I all promised that we loved each other, and that we were going to be a family, and that we were going to always protect and be there for each other.”

 

“But--But she left.” Cooper’s frown deepened. “I remember that. She left and she didn’t come back for _months_ , and I missed her, and--” He stopped, his eyes going suddenly wide, his expression turning fearful and hurt. “Was it my fault? That she left?”

 

There were tears in his eyes, shining and too-bright, and Clint’s heart caught in his throat. “Oh, sweetheart, no. No, of course it wasn’t.” He held out his arm and Cooper all but crawled against him, pushing his head into Clint’s chest in the way that he usually insisted he was too old for now. “Something happened to her, and it made her feel like she wasn’t safe to be so close to us. She was worried that someone make her to do something really bad, and that you or Lila or Mom might get hurt.” Cooper sniffled, half-muffled against Clint’s chest, and mumbled something Clint couldn’t make out. “What?” Clint leaned his head down. “You gotta speak up, buddy, I can’t understand you.”

 

Cooper lifted his head, tears streaking down his head. “I said, did she leave because she didn’t love us anymore?”

 

Clint’s heart clenched, and he swallowed hard, hating that of all the things to inherit, Cooper ended up with his insecurity, because he’d spent the years after Natasha left thinking the same thing.

 

But the more time had gone by, the more he’d started to think that maybe, maybe, he’d been wrong. Because Natasha kept coming back, and as his own bitterness had started to fade, and he’d started to watch her the way he’d used to, and he’d seen the lingering glances she cast at Laura’s hands and the aborted motions she’d make to touch Laura’s hair or neck, the soft smiles she sent his way when she thought he wasn’t looking, the way she’d started touching her ring finger again when she spent more time at the farm, as if expecting a weight that wasn’t there.

 

“No, buddy,” Clint said, swallowing again and pressing a kiss to the top of Cooper’s head. “She didn’t leave because she didn’t love us anymore. She left because she loved us too much to want to hurt us.”

 

Cooper’s lip quivered. “Do you think…” He sniffled, and swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Do you think she’ll ever come back for real? ‘Cause she must still love you. You were kissing her. And she looks at Mom like--like Mom’s made out of sunshine.”

 

Clint laughed softly at that, softly, but a little sadly, too, because Natasha had always looked at Laura like that, even when she’d tried not to. “It’s really complicated, Coop,” he said. “I don’t know if she’ll come back for real. That’s up to Nat, not to us.”

 

“But you want her to, right?” Cooper pressed, leaning closer to him, his eyes as sharp as Clint’s when he was sighting a target. “Right?”

 

Clint sighed. “Yeah, buddy,” he admitted, not sure why it made him feel so vulnerable to say it out loud, when it had been true since the moment Natasha took off her ring and stepped out the door. "More than anything."

 

Cooper looked at him quietly for a moment, and then wrapped his arms around Clint's neck. "I want that, too," he said. "But I'm glad that you're here." He paused, and then added, all in a rush, "And I'm sorry I said you don't care. And I'm glad you're my dad."

 

Clint smiled, returning the hug and holding Cooper tight. “Yeah,” he whispered. “So am I.”

 

They sat there together, the soft nighttime sounds rustling around them, and when Clint finally carried Cooper inside, his son was fast asleep against his chest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: canon-typical violence, hot and heavy makeouts, copious alcohol use, consensual violence between male and female characters, reference to sterilization and infertility, _extremely_ brief (and entirely appropriate) instance of an adult raising their voice to a child.
> 
> FIFTEEN POINTS TO PEOPLE WHO SPOT THE SHAMELESS _HAMILTON_ REFERENCE.
> 
> Notice anything different about the main fic description? That's right, kids, we have an end point, and it is just around the corner! One chapter to go from here (cue my hyperventilating as I try to make sure it lives up to all the buildup), and it'll be a doozy of feelings. So get excited.
> 
> Extra points and thanks to my wonderful editor [deb](http://debz0rz.tumblr.com) for reading and editing this chapter despite having a super yucky cold. Also thanks to [isjustprogress](http://isjustprogress.tumblr.com) for the love and affection and virtual head-pats when I started screeching uncontrollably about my irritation with this chapter. Thanks, ladies. :) 
> 
> And thank you, as always, to everyone who continues to read, comment, and give kudos. Your feelings are my sustenance. <3
> 
> Questions? Comments? Visit me [on tumblr](http://geniusorinsanity.tumblr.com)!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end of chapter for notes and warnings.

**2014**

SHIELD falls, and SHIELD is gone, but Clint’s life doesn’t change.

 

He’s out of a job, but he’s been out of a job for ages, ever since Loki took over his brain and stripped his will away from him. He’d still been getting paychecks, and that money’s gone now, but they don’t worry about money. He and Natasha had stashed enough away in accounts all around the world during their extralegal activity years, and, with the house paid off and SHIELD’s tech keeping their water and sewage and power running off-grid, they don’t have much by way of bills that Laura’s salary doesn’t easily cover.

 

His skin starts to itch over the summer, his hands twitching to be active and _working_ , so he starts thinking about projects. Mike wants new greenhouses and Clint has them done by June, and then moves onto fixing up the loft in the barn.

 

When he starts eyeing the walls in the house, Laura calls Natasha on Clint’s phone. “Talk. To. Him,” she growls into the phone, and then thrusts it at Clint. She smiles sweetly, kisses him on the cheek, and leaves for work.

 

Clint sticks his tongue out at her retreating car, and then puts the phone to his ear. “Hi,” he says. “I’m not being that bad.”

 

“That’s not what Laura says,” Natasha says, chuckling. She’s somewhere in Europe, he doesn’t know where, taking some kind of journey of self-discovery. He can’t blame her. SHIELD had almost all of her aliases, all of her names, all of her faces. She’s been telling lies for one person or another most of her life, and Clint can see why she might want to take some time to figure out who Nat Romanoff really is these days. “She said you were looking at load-bearing walls.”

 

“I checked to see if it was load-bearing,” he protests. She laughs, and he pouts, a little petulant. “I _did_ ,” he grumbles, and Natasha’s laughter is warm and smooth in his ear. “Where are you, anyway?”

 

“Budapest,” she says.

 

“Yeah?” He sits down on the porch with his coffee. “What for?”

 

“Just…retracing all my old steps.” She’s quiet for a moment. “I almost lost you in Budapest.”

 

“You almost lost me lots of places,” he reminds her, gently. That had been their life, for a long, long time. Still was, some days. “I was really good at getting shot.”

 

Natasha snorts. “Yes, you are.” In the background of the call, soft voices murmur and bustle, the clink and tinkle of ceramic audible through the line. He wonders if she’s in the café they’d visited when they’d arrived, two days before everything had gone so far south so quickly. “How is everyone? How are the kids?”

 

“Kids are good. Cooper’s teeth are falling out all the time. He looks ridiculous.”

 

“Poor kid,” Natasha says, amusement and sympathy warring in her voice. “What about Lila?”

 

Clint resists the urge to groan. “If I hear ‘Let It Go’ one more time, I am going to kill myself.”

 

She laughs again, and he smiles. It’s a free, almost ringing sound. Whatever this trip is for her, it’s working. “I miss you, you know.”

 

“I miss you, too.” There’s a soft slurping sound, and he can’t help a grin. Natasha, as graceful as she is, has always slurped her lattes in cafes. She tells him it’s because she likes the milk foam, but he thinks it’s because sometimes, she just likes to be a little ridiculous. “Why are you looking for ways to tear the house down, Clint?”

 

“I’m _not_ ,” he begins, and then sighs, gives up. “I’m bored, I guess,” he admits, turning his coffee mug in his hand. It’s one of Laura’s, purple and sparkly. It’s hideous—almost all their mugs are—and he loves it. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been out like I used to be, and I just…I miss the action. I miss doing my job, you know?”

 

“I know.” She’s quiet. “I’m actually glad you miss it,” she says finally, sounding almost guilty to say it. “I think that part of me worried you’d never want to come back to it.”

 

Clint closes his eyes, feels the morning breeze against his face. “I needed time,” he says. “More than I thought I would’ve.”

 

“You got to be a full-time dad for a little while,” she says, and her voice is wistful, soft. “That’s not so bad.”

 

“No.” Clint smiles. “Didn’t quite make the brainwashing worth it, but at least now I can say I know how to be a kickass stay-at-home parent. I even baked for Cooper’s school bake sale last week.”

 

“Really?” He can _hear_ the raise of her eyebrows. She’s such a jerk. “And no kids died?”

 

“Ha, ha.” He makes a face at the phone, even though she can’t see him, and then sighs. “I just need something to do, y’know? I’m not so old yet. I’ve got a few more good years left in me.”

 

“I know you do,” Natasha says. “Something will come along. It always does.”

 

She’s right, because of course she is. Two weeks later, right in the middle of his dinner prep, his phone rings, and when he picks up the unknown New York number, Tony Stark’s cheerful grin comes right through the speakers. “Hey there, Legolas! A little spider told me you needed something to do.”

 

Damn it, Nat, Clint thinks, casting a suffering look at the picture of Natasha and Laura taped to the fridge, this is _not_ what I meant. But he’d told Stark back in Midtown that he’d pick up if he called, so here he is. “Something like that,” he says. “Why? Got a job for me?”

 

“You bet, Hawkeye,” Stark says, light and easy. It’s the forced lightness that Clint knows to expect from him, and he shakes his head in vague amusement. Stark knows it’s fake, Clint knows it’s fake, and he was pretty sure that Stark knows that Clint knows it’s fake, but he’s doing it anyway. Weird guy. “Some alien tech’s been showing up in Hydra bases, stuff that didn’t get cleaned up the way it should’ve after New York. Cap and I are getting the band back together. You up for a reunion tour?”

 

Clint’s heart seizes up at _alien tech_ , and he takes a few deep breaths, mentally recites Nat’s birthday and Laura’s birthday and his anniversary and Cooper’s birthday and Lila’s, like his therapist taught him. When his pulse calms down again, he manages, “What’d you have in mind?”

 

“We’ve got a shiny new headquarters here in Manhattan,” Stark says. “I’ll text you the address. Cap wants us assembling ASAP.”

 

Lila has a ballet recital on Thursday, and Clint realizes with a twinge that he hasn’t been away from his kids in _years_. He curls his fingers into a fist, and then releases them. “Give me a week to wrap some stuff up,” he says, keeping things as vague as he thinks Stark will let him get away with. “You get Nat on board yet?”

 

“You bet, bird-man. Got the whole gang coming in, big green and Thor and all.”

 

Another clench of his heart at Thor’s name. He swallows. “Sounds good,” he says. “I’ll see you in a week.”

 

When he tells Laura, she loses it.

 

“Are you out of your _mind_?” She hisses it at him from across the living room, keeping her voice low because the kids are asleep and they have always, _always_ agreed that on the rare occasions that they fight, it won’t disturb their children. “Clint, you barely got out of that alien shit last time! You think I’m going to let you go back into it?”

 

“I have to,” he says, firm and set. They’ve been going around in circles on this for over half an hour. He loves Laura more than life itself, but this shit is only out in the world because he helped open the door, and he’s already made up his mind. “I let this stuff get here in the first place. It’s my job to get rid of it.”

 

Laura crosses her arms, her eyes blazing. “That was _not_ your call.”

 

“But this is,” he says simply. “Laura, people died. A lot of people. _Kids_.” He swallows, hard. “I have to make this right.”

 

Her expression softens a fraction, her grip on her arms loosening. “Clint,” she says quietly. “You don’t have to fight every battle.”

 

“I’m not saying I do.” He holds out his hands for her, and after a long, frowning moment, she sighs and steps close enough for him to take hers, bringing them up to kiss her fingertips gently. “But I have to fight this one. This one is my fight.”

 

Laura swallows, leaning forward and tilting her forehead up. He bends to kiss the worry lines there. “The kids are going to be so mad at you,” she says, and he smiles softly, wrapping his arms around her.

 

“I know.”

 

He packs his bow and his guns in hard cases, checks his luggage at a commercial airport with the flash of a fake—but still passable—FBI badge, and takes a direct flight to JFK airport. Stark sends a car to meet him, and Clint makes a face but climbs in, lets the driver bring him right to Stark Tower, now, apparently, Avengers Tower.

 

It’s the most ostentatious thing he’s ever seen, and he spends a moment staring up at it in absolute shock.

 

“Awful,” Natasha says from the space beside his left elbow, which definitely hadn’t been occupied a moment ago. “Isn’t it?”

 

Clint doesn’t jump out of his skin, because he is a trained professional, but he makes a face at her before pulling her into a tight hug. “Terrible,” he agrees, but doesn’t really care—more important is the scent of her hair, still unchanged after so many years. It’s short and curly again, his favorite style on her, the awful straight style she’d worn during the end of SHIELD long gone. She winds her hands into his shirt and he holds her tight, tucking his face into the crook between her neck and shoulder, right where it always fit, where it always belonged.

 

“Hey, superspies, ease up the PDA.”

 

Clint manages not to sigh. “Stark,” he greets, letting Natasha go and turning to shake their benefactor’s hand. “Good to see you again.”

 

Stark flashes him a grin, clasping his hand briefly. “Wasn’t sure if you’d come in,” he says, tone teasing but eyes sharp. “You practically dropped off the face of the world. You don’t call, you don’t write…”

 

“Never been great at the long-distance thing,” Clint says, which is such a bold-faced lie he almost can’t say it with a straight face.

 

“We’ll have to whip you into shape on that one, I hate feeling neglected,” Stark says. His gaze flickers briefly back and forth between Clint and Natasha, thoughtful, and then he grins, teeth white against his dark goatee. “Right,” he says, and beckons them toward the Tower with an elaborate gesture. “Let’s get to work.”

**2015 (August)**

 

Cooper slept heavily in his arms as Clint carried him into the still, quiet house. Getting the front door open had been a bit challenging, but he’d managed, and Cooper’s head lolled contentedly against his shoulder, his lips curved in a soft, exhausted smile.

 

Clint nudged the door closed with one foot, turning into the living room. Natasha was on the couch, watching him with an unreadable expression, and he gave her a reassuring expression. “All good,” he said softly, keeping his voice low. “Help me get him to bed?”

 

Natasha hesitated, and then nodded, climbing to her feet. He nodded for her to go up the stairs ahead of him, and she padded up on quiet feet, his footsteps heavier as he followed her. Cooper didn’t wake when they brought him into his room or when they laid him on his bed, and only barely stirred as Clint untied his shoes and took them off, along with his jeans. Natasha came over to the bed with a pair of pajama bottoms, and Clint maneuvered him into them gently, Cooper utterly uncooperative as he attempted to snuggle into his bed before Clint finished getting the pajamas on.

 

When he finally got the pants up around Cooper’s waist, he scooped him up again; pulling the blankets back and then laying him back down. “Grab Mookey,” he murmured to Natasha, but she was already there, the long-loved, nearly threadbare monkey in her hand. She tucked it under Cooper’s arm and he made a sleepily pleased noise, then another one when Clint pulled the covers up around him. Clint smiled, his heart swelling, and bent down to kiss Cooper’s hair. “I love you, sweetheart,” he murmured.

 

Without opening his eyes, Cooper groped sleepily up until his hand found Clint’s cheek. “Love you too, Daddy,” he mumbled.

 

Clint laughed softly, kissing him again and then getting to his feet with only a slight wince. “Want to say goodnight?” he asked Natasha.

 

She swallowed, her face hesitant, emotions he couldn’t make out completely in the dark room warring across her face. But she nodded, moving forward and sitting down on the edge of Cooper’s bed. She reached out one hand and brushed her fingers through his hair, tender and soft, and then bent, kissing his forehead and then resting her cheek against his for a long, slow moment. She murmured something Clint couldn’t hear, but he caught the curl of Russian syllables, and bit the inside of his lip.

 

When she straightened up, touching Cooper’s hair once more and then slipping past Clint into the hallway, he caught the faint shimmer of unshed tears in her eyes as she passed him. He followed her out of the room, closing the door gently behind him. “Hey,” he said softly, catching her arm. “Come with me.”

 

Natasha paused. “Why?”

 

He cocked a brow. “You want to know what I told him, or not?”

 

She pressed her lips together but nodded, and Clint dropped his grip from her arm to her hand, grasping her fingers gently. She let him, even curling her fingers around his, and he led her down the hall to his bedroom, where soft light glowed under the door.

 

Laura looked up from nursing Nate when they entered, concern flickering into her eyes. “There you are,” she said, her voice soft. She shifted to support Nate with one hand, stretching the other out to Natasha, who moved toward her like she was drawn there, slipping into bed and letting Laura curl her hand over her cheek. Laura stroked her thumb over Natasha’s cheekbone, and then glanced up at Clint. “How’s our boy?”

 

“Out like a light,” Clint said, sitting on the bed. “We talked for awhile.”

 

Natasha drew herself back from Laura’s hand, slowly, as if it pained her to do it. She pulled her legs up to wrap her arms loosely around them. “What did you tell him?”

 

“The truth.” Clint settled one hand on Laura’s ankle, rubbing soft circles over the bone. She smiled softly at him, and he squeezed her ankle gently. “Age-appropriate and all, but the truth. That the three of us were together for a long time, and we all loved each other like married people, and that when Cooper was a baby we were all his parents together, and that’s why he remembers Nat being there when he was little.”

 

He glanced at Natasha. Her face was carefully blank, but uncertainty and insecurity hovered along the edges of her expression. “What did he say?”

 

Clint hesitated. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her, but he knew he owed her the honest answer. “He thought he’d made it up,” he said, and she closed her eyes, her lips pressing together. He reached out and touched her arm, and she opened her eyes, giving him a faint, thin-lipped smile. “Nat,” he said quietly. “He wasn’t angry at you.”

 

She gave a soft, halting laugh. “Right,” she said. “Even when you told him why I left?”

 

“I told him that you left because something happened to you that made you feel like you couldn’t keep him and Lila safe,” Clint said firmly, holding her gaze steady. “Not that you didn’t love him, not that you didn’t love us. That things happen, especially in our line of work, and that keeping the family safe is the most important thing.”

 

A flash of hope flickered into Natasha’s eyes, and disappeared just as quickly as she tightened her arms around her knees. “And he was okay with that?”

 

“He’s got your brains, not mine,” Clint said, cracking a faint grin, and she snorted a laugh. “Yeah, Nat. He understood. He’s a smart kid.”

 

“Very smart,” Laura murmured. She pulled Nate off her breast and re-fastened her nursing bra, shrugging her shirt back over her shoulder and sitting Nate up to burp him. She was quiet for a few moments, her eyes focused on the baby, but her expression was thoughtful. “I’m glad you told him,” she said finally, glancing back up at them. “It was past time. I don’t like keeping secrets from them.”

 

Natasha gave her a surprised look. “Was it a secret?”

 

“We certainly weren’t being open about it,” Laura said, raising her eyebrows. “Were you?”

 

“I…” Natasha trailed off, and then dropped her eyes down again—not shame, Clint thought, but a tired sort of uncertainty. He shifted on the bed to move closer to her, close enough that his knee touched her shins when he pulled his legs up to sit cross-legged, and she smiled faintly at him. “No. You’re right.” She touched her left ring finger absently with her right thumb, and Clint tried not to track the motion. “I don’t,” she began, and broke off, taking a breath. “I don’t mean to hide it, or lie about it. What we were.” She swallowed and licked her lips, briefly pressing them together. “It’s just that I don’t know what we are now.”

 

Clint looked at Laura, who looked quietly back, and then back at Natasha. “We’re whatever you want us to be, Nat,” he said. “You know that.”

 

Her lips twitched into a wry smile. “Whatever I want,” she echoed, her curls moving slightly as she shook her head. “You keep saying that.”

 

Clint held her gaze. “It’s still true.”

 

She looked at him for a few seconds, and then dropped her eyes, shaking her head again. “I don’t always get what I want,” she said.

 

Laura sighed. “Only because you don’t take it when it’s offered to you,” she said, the usually soft tone she used with Natasha sharpening along the edges.

 

Natasha caught the change in tone the same moment that Clint did, and her head snapped up, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Laura. “What do you mean?”

 

Her voice was low, very nearly deadly. Clint had seen armed men turn to trembling messes under that tone. Laura simply looked at her, her own eyes cool and determined. “You know exactly what I mean, Natasha,” she said, and Clint stilled, even as Natasha’s lips parted in surprise.

 

Oh, he thought. This was happening.

 

This was happening now.

**2015**

 

Steve and Stark call them out to Assemble, and suddenly, she’s an Avenger again.

 

Stark channels his PTSD into weapons and gear, and Clint—who, granted, hasn’t had any new toys for more than two years now—turns into a giddy kid, dragging Natasha up to Tony’s lab with him to show off his new trick arrows while Stark looks on in glowing pride, half-disguised as amusement. To be fair, some of the arrows _are_ interesting, if a little weird—“A boomerang arrow, seriously?” she asks him, skeptical. “It comes _back_ ,” he tells her gleefully, twirling it around his fingers—but it’s still no excuse.

 

“I may kill him,” she tells Laura over the phone after a particularly headache-inducing night of video gaming involving Clint, Thor, Stark, and, oddly, Bruce turning into absolute children at Mario Kart. “This place is like a fraternity house.”

 

Laura chuckles, warm and amused. “Like you’ve ever been in a fraternity house,” she says.

 

For some reason, Natasha bristles almost defensively. “I’ve been in a fraternity house!”

 

“For something other than a murder of a high-profile politician doing gross and inappropriate things to college-aged girls?”

 

“…Yes.”

 

“Of course you have.” Laura’s smile comes in through the phone, and Natasha cradles it between her shoulder and ear, relaxing into the sound of her voice. When Laura next speaks, though, her voice is soft, concerned. “How’s he really doing, Nat?”

 

Natasha hears the question she doesn’t ask out loud. Clint hasn’t been in the field since Midtown. His reflexes are as sharp as ever—Natasha watches him train with a sharp eye, monitoring his form for any sign of deterioration or weakness, and hasn’t seen anything that makes her worry—but she can’t help keeping her gaze on him as he spars with Steve or runs weapons drills with Stark.

 

She tells herself that it’s because he’s her battlefield lifeline, that she needs to know that she can trust him to watch her back without worrying that he’ll screw up his own. But she knows she’s just kidding herself.

 

“He’s good,” she says, leaning against the wall of the kitchen in the apartment Stark set aside for her. It’s remarkably tasteful. She suspects Pepper’s influence. “Really. Not perfect, he’s still getting back into practice, but…he’s good.”

 

Laura’s quiet for a few seconds. “Do you think he’ll still be good when he gets into the field?”

 

Natasha considers that, running her fingers over the leaf of the fern Clint had bought her for her kitchen. (“It needs livening,” he’d told her, and she’d rolled her eyes, but smiled all the same.) Clint has been holding himself together during training, hasn’t had any episodes of anxiety or post-traumatic panic, as far as she knows, but that’s no indication of how he’ll do with the triggers of real combat. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Really, Laura, I don’t. There’s no way to, until he gets out there.”

 

“I wish there was,” Laura says, and Natasha closes her eyes.

 

“I know. But I’ll keep an eye on him.”

 

Laura snorts. “Keep an eye on yourself, Romanoff,” she says dryly, and despite herself, Natasha laughs.

 

Their first fight as the newly reunited Avengers goes as well as it can for a failed mission. They capture the Hydra base and no one dies, but Loki’s spear is nowhere to be found.

 

“Your princess is in another castle,” Clint mutters as they troop back onto the quinjet. His tone is half-sarcastic, but Natasha catches the tension in his shoulders, the barely-veiled bitterness in his eyes.

 

“Princess?” Thor asks, pushing his long hair back and casually dropping Mjolnir onto one of the seats.

 

“Long story,” Tony tells him, his armor peeling itself back and reassembling itself into an eerie Iron Man statue. Down to his shirt, he rolls his shoulders back and slides into the pilot’s seat. “But hey, I don’t think it went so bad for our first time back out.” He cranes his neck back to look at Bruce. “What do you think, Big Green?”

 

Bruce gives him a weary-eyed look, pulling his borrowed shirt more tightly around him. Even after the battle was won, they’d had to wait nearly an hour for the Hulk to shrink himself back into Bruce. “Something like that,” he says tiredly.

 

“We need to figure out a way to let the other guy know that it’s time to let you back out to play,” Clint says, dropping down into a seat next to Natasha. Out of habit, she looks him over. His arms are covered with shallow scratches, there’s some spectacular bruising on his jaw, and he’s favoring his left leg, but considering he’d been thrown off a moving car, it’s not so bad. He glances at her, clearly noticing her gaze, then cocks an eyebrow and looks back at Bruce. “Some kind of signal, maybe? A trigger phrase?”

 

Natasha very carefully doesn’t flinch at the idea. Bruce rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. “Maybe,” he says slowly. “But it’ll have to…It’ll have to come from someone he trusts.”

 

Thor narrows his eyes. “Surely such a thing would be more useful if it could be used by the entire team.”

 

“I know,” Bruce says, managing a half-hearted smile. “But he’s a particular guy.”

 

Steve looks thoughtful. “It should be you,” he says to Tony. “Next to Thor, you’ve got the most mobility, and you and the Hulk have a good rapport.”

 

“Me and _Bruce_ have a good rapport,” Tony corrects, taking the jet up into the sky. He glances back over his shoulder, giving Bruce a sympathetic look. “No offense, big guy.”

 

Bruce’s lips quirk. “None taken.”

 

Natasha runs her hand over her Bites, considering. She likes Bruce well enough—she finds his nerdy professor personality oddly endearing, and he’s sweet, in a stumbling sort of way—but the Hulk still alarms her with his unpredictability. Natasha was trained to control every variable in the field and chaos throws her out of her comfort zone. It had taken her long enough to get used to _Clint_ , and he’s a trained, disciplined professional next to the Hulk.

 

(To be fair, Clint is a trained, disciplined professional next to most people—he’s the best of the best. But Natasha has exacting standards.)

 

Still, her spiking anxiety around the Hulk is a weakness. She presses her lips together.

 

“I could do it,” she says.

 

Clint’s gaze snaps to her, sharp. Bruce looks surprised. “You?”

 

It’s not accusatory, just bemused. Natasha shrugs one shoulder, smiling. “I don’t think the Other Guy sees me as a threat,” she says, which is true. Then, half on a whim, she adds, “Besides, it’ll give us a chance to get to know each other better.”

 

Bruce’s pale cheeks tinge pink. Clint’s lips thin and he turns, dropping his gaze down to his bow. Natasha very carefully doesn’t let herself bristle. “I,” Bruce begins, and then hesitates. “We could try it. We’ll just have to find a way to do it safely.”

 

In the pilot’s seat, Stark snorts out a laugh. Natasha deliberately doesn’t roll her eyes-- _boys_ , honestly--but she does give Bruce another thoughtful look. He _is_ kind, and funny, in a self-deprecating way that reminds her of Clint, but without the biting edge to it. She looks down at his hands. They’re an academic’s hands, smooth and strong, none of the calluses or farmhouse roughness of Clint’s or the ink-stained slimness of Laura’s. She wonders, vaguely, what they’d feel like on her skin.

 

After all, she’s meant to be finding out who she is now, without masks or shields. Why not try something different?

 

They touch down at the Tower and go their separate ways to their own quarters. Natasha expects that they’ll do a team debrief later, but for now, they all need some space. The frustration of missing the spear hovers visibly under everyone’s skin, and it’s been a long day. None of them need their tempers flaring at this point of the day, and that tends to happen when they’re all stressed.

 

She takes a long, hot shower, letting the water soothe the ache of the day from her muscles. She’d come away from the fight fairly unscathed, but the fade of adrenaline always left her tired and sore. Her back itches, and she squirms her shoulders to try and get to it, fails, and then sighs, rueful.

 

She misses the big things about marriage, obviously, the love and the sex and the comfort. But sometimes, she just misses having someone around to itch that awkward place in the middle of her back.

 

Her phone rings while she’s toweling off her hair, and she picks up without checking the display. “Romanoff.”

 

“Hey,” Clint says. “Can you come by?”

 

Natasha steps into her jeans, holding the phone between her shoulder and ear to free her hands. “Everything okay?”

 

“Yeah. Just need to talk to you.”

 

She can’t place his tone, and it bothers her. “Sure,” she says. “Be there in five.”

 

The door to Clint’s quarters stands ajar when she reaches it, and she lets herself in, closing the door behind her. “Clint?” She calls.

 

“Bedroom,” he calls back.

 

She follows the sound of his voice to the Stark-styled bedroom, the bed large and decadent and completely different from the homey bed he shares at home with Laura. He’s sitting shirtless on the edge, his jeans unbuttoned, attempting to navigate his way to the back of his ribs to smear antibacterial cream on them. He glances up when she comes in. “Hey,” he says, and holds out the tube. “Help?”

 

“What happened to all that circus flexibility?” She teases, taking the cream from him and climbing up onto the bed to sit behind him. The scratches on his back aren’t deep and have already stopped bleeding, but they’re open enough that they should be covered. She feels a hint of pride that he’d taken the time to at least try to treat them; years ago, he’d have left them alone.

 

Clint snorts. “It hit forty-four,” he says dryly.

 

Natasha smiles despite herself. “That’ll happen,” she says. She spreads some of the cream over her fingers and sets to putting it on the cuts. Clint holds himself steady, not even flinching under her touch. “You did good out there today,” she says softly.

 

His shoulders tense. “Yeah, well,” he says. “You were the one worried I wouldn’t.”

 

She stills, her fingers still touching his back. Caught. She should have known he’d have been watching her as carefully as she had been watching him. “Clint,” she says, already working on an explanation. “I didn’t--”

 

“It’s fine,” he says. It doesn’t sound fine. He sounds tired. “I get it. I know I’ve been out of the game.”

 

Natasha narrows her eyes. “So why do you sound angry?”

 

Clint sighs, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. There’s blood under his fingernails. “I just...I was hoping it would be an easy job, y’know? Get in, get the scepter, get out, go home.”

 

Natasha picks up a gauze pad from the first aid kit open on the bed, taping it in place over one of the worst of the scrapes. “Sick of field work already? You just got back in.”

 

She tries to say it teasingly, but a small, jealous part of her just doesn’t want him to leave. Even after she’d left him and Laura they’d still had their work together, violent and messy as it was. The last few years have been hard enough without him fighting at her side, and she wants, fierce and guilty, to keep him with her.

 

But Clint doesn’t answer her, and she frowns, leaning over to get a better look at him. His face is troubled, and she narrows her eyes. “Clint,” she says. He glances up at her, almost guiltily. “What aren’t you telling me?”

 

He rubs his hands together, flexing his knuckles, and then sighs softly. “Laura’s pregnant.”

 

The breath leaves her in a rush, and she’s suddenly grateful that she’s already sitting down, certain that if she hadn’t been, her legs would have given out. “Oh,” she manages.

 

Clint looks down. “Yeah.”

 

She shifts on the bed, moving to sit next to him. Her arm presses along his, shoulder to elbow. It reminds her, strangely, of that quiet moment on the Helicarrier after Loki, when she’d only just gotten him back, and her heart was still lodged in her throat. They’d been in uniform then, but now they’re skin to skin, and the warmth of his arm against hers grounds her, keeps her steady. She takes a breath. “How far along is she?”

 

“Four months.”

 

Sudden hurt flares under her skin. “Four _months_?” She echoes. She’s not entitled to be the first to know anymore, she knows that, she _does_ , but she’d thought that they still loved her enough to--

 

The words come out before she can stop them. “And you’re just telling me now?”

 

Clint just gives her a slightly embarrassed smile. “We just found out,” he admits, scratching the back of his head. “We weren’t really, uh...trying for it.”

 

Despit her spinning thoughts, she raises her eyebrows. “Really, Clint?” She says, skeptical. “Aren’t you a little old for an accidental pregnancy?”

 

He snorts. “Yeah, well, take it up with Laura’s shitty IUD, not my dick,” he says. He’s quiet for a moment, his gaze resting on her hands where they lay in her lap. Instinctively, she clasps them together to keep herself from threading her fingers through his. “You okay?”

 

“Yes,” she says, automatic. But it’s Clint, and he just _looks_ at her, calm and knowing, and she sighs. “No,” she amends, squeezing her fingers together. She wants to call Laura. No, she doesn’t--she wants to get on a plane and _see_ Laura, wants to press her hands against her belly to feel the new life there and see the soft, glowing pride that comes into Laura’s eyes when she’s pregnant. “Another baby,” she murmurs. She does the math in her head; if Laura’s four months along now, she should be due in late June, early July. A summer baby, she thinks, and smiles. “Wow.”

 

“Yeah.” He smiles, tender and soft. “Laura’s really happy. She’s been wanting a third for awhile now.”

 

“I know.”

 

Clint huffs a laugh. “Of course you do,” he says, but there’s no bitterness in it, just amusement. “I guess she talked to you about it while I was being…”

 

He trails off. “Post-traumatic?” She suggests. He nods, his smile twitching, and she nudges him gently. “She did, but she wasn’t upset with you.” She wonders if he knows just how long Laura’s wanted another baby, and swallows the lump in her throat that she wasn’t a part of this one. “What about you?”

 

Clint leans down with a faint wince as the scrapes on his back pull taut, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on his folded hands. “Nervous,” he says, like he’s admitting a great secret. “Happy. But nervous.”

 

Absently, she runs her thumb over the knuckle of her left ring finger. “Like you were with Cooper?”

 

He shakes his head. “No,” he says, his expression soft and distant. “That was about me and my own issues. This…” He shrugs. “The world’s gone crazy, Nat. There’s gods and super-soldiers and fucking aliens coming from the sky--”

 

He breaks off abruptly, shuddering. Natasha moves without thinking, wrapping one hand around his wrist and squeezing tight, anchoring him to her. Mentally, she kicks herself for thinking that it would be fighting in the field that would trigger him. It’s never been about the fighting. If anything, she realizes, fighting for his life is probably the most comfortable thing Clint does. He’s been doing it his whole life. “This kid will be lucky to have you as its dad, Clint,” she says quietly. “Crazy world or not, there’s--there’s a lot of love in it.”

 

His pulse jumps under her fingers, but he just hesitates, glancing at her. “There’s one other thing.”

 

Almost automatically now, she braces herself. “What?”

 

“We…” He takes a breath, looking down at her hand, still wrapped around his wrist. “We want to name the baby after you.”

 

She stares at him. “You...what?” He opens his mouth, but she shakes her head, cutting him off. “No, I mean--I just--why?”

 

Clint gives her a small smile. It’s hesitant at the corners, as if unsure whether to be shy or sad or both. “Because we love you,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like hearing it doesn’t make her heart leap and clench in her chest. “Because I wouldn’t be here, if it weren’t for you. And--” He breaks off, his smile faint and a little embarrassed. “Well. You know you’re our best friend, right?”

 

Natasha can’t do anything but stare. Her eyes sting, and she has to force herself to keep breathing. “I don’t...I don’t know what to say.”

 

“You don’t have to say anything.” He looks down at his hands again. “You should call her. She misses you.”

 

She swallows. “I know.” And then, before she can stop herself--“I miss you, too.”

 

He smiles softly at that, and suddenly she can’t stay with him any longer, knows she won’t be able to keep herself from curling up into his lap and refusing to leave until he carries her home to Laura’s arms. She pushes herself to her feet, and he tracks her movement with his eyes. “You’re leaving?”

 

There’s a faint note of hurt in his voice, but she makes herself ignore it. “I told Bruce I’d meet with him to talk about the whole Hulk-taming thing.”

 

“Right,” he says slowly. He narrows his eyes slightly, and she can’t read his face. “Be careful with that, Nat.”

 

She smiles at him, bright and false, and knows he doesn’t buy it for a moment. “I’m always careful.”

 

Clint snorts. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure.” He looks past her to the window, where the first streaks of evening gold are beginning to paint the sky. “Guess you’d better head out, then,” he murmurs. “Sun’s getting real low.”

 

Natasha follows his gaze. The sun is beginning to sink down against the horizon, casting the sky into shades of pink. It’s the kind of sky Laura loves. She starts to reach for him, for what, she’s not sure--maybe just to feel his skin on hers. But she pulls herself back, closing her fingers against her palm, and slips, silent, from the room.

 

Whether they’ve admitted it to themselves or not, Clint and Laura are moving on without her. This baby--her heart beats faster at the thought, and she forces the feeling away--is proof of that.

 

She needs a distraction badly, she thinks, heading out of Clint’s quarters and making for the elevator bay. Something to--to take her mind off of things. Something challenging, fun. Something high risk, but high reward.

 

Unbidden, the image of Clint and Laura comes into her mind, of Laura’s rounded belly and Clint’s easy grin, and her skin tingles with the memory of their bodies against hers. She grits her teeth, shaking her head to clear the thought away.

 

A distraction will be good for her, she decides. A distraction will get her through this.

 

Natasha squares her shoulders, and goes to find Bruce.

 

**2015 (August)**

 

The silence in the room was thick and uncertain. Clint seemed frozen, his hand stiff where it rested on Laura’s ankle, and Laura’s expression was slightly stricken, as if she wasn’t sure she’d meant to say that. But she kept her jaw firm and held Natasha’s gaze, and Natasha looked back at her, torn between feeling stunned and proud. For all that Laura was always willing to call Clint out, she rarely did it to Natasha, and in another moment, she might have been pleased.

 

But right now she was too raw, too tense to appreciate it. “No,” she said flatly. “Why don’t you tell me?”

 

Laura narrowed her eyes. Wordlessly, she passed Nate to Clint, and he glanced back and forth between the two of them before gathering the baby into his arms and climbing off the bed. Natasha watched him go, taking in the sure tenderness of his arm around Nate, despite the tension in his shoulders. But then, that was Clint, under all the snark and muscle and self-deprecation--gentle to the core.

 

“That,” Laura said. Startled from her thoughts, Natasha looked back at her, and found Laura watching her, her eyes shining with almost angry tears. “That’s what I’m talking about. You look at him like that all the time, Tasha. Like he’s something wonderful that you’re not allowed to have.”

 

He _is_ , Natasha wanted to say, you _both_ are. She bit the words back, channeling frustration into anger. “You’re making it sound like I stay away from you just to torture myself.”

 

“I can’t think of any other reason,” Laura retorted, crossing her arms.

 

“Laura,” Clint said quietly from beside Nate’s crib, but she shook her head.

 

“No. I can’t--” Laura broke off, took a breath through her nose to steady herself. When she spoke again, her voice was calmer, but no less emotional. “You can’t keep acting like you’re just waiting for us to push you away when neither of us has done anything to tell you we don’t want you.”

 

Natasha gritted her teeth. “Laura,” she says, “You say that, but you don’t know--”

 

“What?” Laura leaned forward, her face set in stubborn lines. “What don’t I know, Natasha? What doesn’t _Clint_ know? Because between the two of us, I’m pretty sure we’ve heard all your deep dark secrets, and neither of us has run for the hills.” She crossed her arms and glared. “So? What is it? What could be left that’s so awful that you think it would scare us off?”

 

Natasha opened her mouth to retort--and then stopped, forcing herself to pause. She told herself because it was because she was too well-trained to snap out of anger, but she knew that wasn’t true--more than that, she knew that Laura was right. There wasn’t much about her past that she hadn’t told Clint or Laura or both over the years; between them, she realized, they probably knew her history better than she did. She swallowed. Maybe…

 

But the realistic part of her, the part that remembered her training on a cellular level, the part that knew too much of heartbreak and had spilled too much blood to let her trust herself with something so precious again--that part held her back. She swallowed, hating herself, and squared her shoulders. “It’s not that simple.”

 

Laura didn’t back down. “Then explain it to me.” Natasha hesitated, but Laura didn’t give her a chance to respond. “You have to explain it to me, Natasha, because I don’t understand it anymore. I understood why you left when you did, I understand why you didn’t come back right away, but now? Now I just don’t understand what’s making you keep coming home and then pulling away from us again, because right now all I’m coming up with is that you’ve realized that you just don’t want _us_ , but you think if you tell us that completely, you’ll lose the kids.”

 

Natasha recoiled. The possibility of losing the kids was a possibility she had never even considered, and the very idea chilled her. But then the rest of Laura’s sentence caught up with her, and the air left her lungs. Because in what world, what possible world, could she ever not _want_ them, not want the soft touch of Laura’s hands or the ease of Clint’s grin or the sweet smell of Laura’s hair or the strength in Clint’s arms--“No,” she whispered. “No, Laura, of course not. Of course I want you.”

 

“Then what _is_ it?” The tears that had been gathering in Laura’s eyes finally spilled over, tracking down her cheeks as she spoke. “Because I’m trying, Tasha, we both are, we _have_ been, but it’s been six _years_ , and you’re still pushing us away. But you’re so happy when you’re here, it’s all over your face, and I can’t--I don’t understand how--”

 

She was crying openly, her lips trembling, and Clint cast a pained look at Natasha before sitting down on the bed next to Laura, pulling her gently into his arms. “That’s enough,” he said softly. “Both of you. That’s enough. We’re all tired, and it’s been a long day. Someone’s going to say something they regret.”

 

His eyes were on Natasha, but his hands were gentle as they combed through Laura’s hair. Natasha curled her hands into fists, but she knew he was right. As much as they’d all been trying to hide it over the years, this was a half-healed wound for all of them, and wounds left untreated never failed to fester. She took a breath, meeting Clint’s eyes and hating the heartbreak and hesitance and (still, always, always) love she saw there. “Maybe--” She swallowed. “Maybe I should go.”

 

Clint looked at her, and for a moment she expected him to shake his head, to tell her to stay, like he always did. But he pressed his lips together and nodded, just a small, tight motion of his chin. “Maybe you should.”

 

It wasn’t a rejection, she knew that. It wasn’t a push, either--just a soft need for space. But it still stung, and she had to blink back her tears as Clint closed his eyes and ducked his head, pressing his forehead into Laura’s hair. She cast one last look at them, her heart breaking into pieces, and left the room before she could do something stupid, like tell them how wrong she was and crawl into their bed and never get out again.

 

She went back to her own room, shut the door behind her, and leaned against the wall for a moment, her eyes closed, just breathing, trying to get her thoughts under control. They spun and twisted through her head and she tilted her head back to rest against the closed door. Her entire body shook, her knees weak and trembling, her heart clenching in her chest. Natasha gritted her teeth against the sob that threatened to push its way past them and shoved herself away from the door, picking up her phone from the bedside table and opening her text chat with Steve. She sat down on the floor next to the bed and then stopped, her thumbs hovering over her keyboard.

 

What could she tell him? He had his suspicions, she knew that; he was smarter than he looked, but she wasn’t ready to confirm them for him. She hesitated, tapping one thumb against the back of the phone, and then sighed, going for simple.

 

_Change of plans- heading back tomorrow. Tell Stark to book me a flight out of Des Moines._

 

Almost immediately, the typing icon popped up from Steve. _Everything ok?_

 

Natasha resisted the urge to smack her head back against the metal bedframe. Trust Steve to read what she didn’t say. _Fine :) Just missed your old man face_ , she typed back.

 

_Bullshit_

 

Despite herself, she snorted. _Language!_

 

He sent back a selfie, his middle finger extended, followed by a few lines of text. _Fine, keep your secrets. I’ll tell Tony._

 

 _Thx_.

 

There was a pause, the typing icon flashing, long enough that she started to wonder just how much of a novel he was writing. But when the message finally appeared, it was short.

 

_You smile more when you’re with them._

 

She stared at the letters, reading the message over and over again. Before she could respond, another message came up.

 

_You shouldn’t walk away from something that makes you happy just because you think you can’t have it._

 

Natasha hesitated, her hands poised to type back, not sure what to say. Steve was one of her closest friends these days, but their moments of deepness were rare--they were both too old and too tired to have them often. She stared at the text a few moments more, and then typed back to him, _not ur usual sort of advice_.

 

His response came quickly, as if relieved she hadn’t turned the conversation into a deeper one. _Taking a leaf out of your book, matchmaker._

 

She smiled. _Thanks._

 

_No problem. Expect tix confirmation from Stark._

 

That seemed to end the conversation, and she sighed, closing her eyes and leaning her head back again. That was that, then. She would go back to New York in the morning, take some space from the farm again. That was the right thing to do. It would give her time to clear her head, to get some distance from the longing and almost magnetic pull of Clint and Laura that made her want to listen to the idealistic, romantic side of her heart and stay forever. And a little distance would be good for them, too. It would give them time to remember that they didn’t need her here, that their love for her was probably more nostalgic and wistful now than anything else. Eventually, she’d be able to come here, and they’d greet her like a friend, not like a distant lover, and she would learn to be okay with that. She could.

 

Maybe if she told herself that often enough, she’d even believe it.

 

What she needed now, she decided, was a drink. Something to settle her nerves, to help her get to sleep. It would be a long drive to the airport tomorrow. She climbed to her feet, glancing in the mirror and wincing slightly at the redness of her eyes and the flush of her cheeks. She pushed her hair back and rolled her shoulders, then stepped out into the hallway.

 

Cooper’s door was slightly ajar, and she sighed. The latch on that door had been faulty for years, but she’d been sure that Clint was going to fix it. She headed down the hall to close it, pausing for a moment to glance into the room.

 

Cooper was fast asleep, sprawled out on his back on his bed, his blankets kicked down around his feet. As she watched, a small shiver went through him, and she smiled fondly, slipping into the room.

 

With gentle hands, she untangled the blankets from around his feet and pulled them up, tucking them carefully around his shoulders. The small furrow in his brow that had come with the shiver eased, his face relaxing into peaceful sleep once more, and Natasha pressed her lips together, sitting down on the edge of his bed to just watch him for a few moments. She marveled at the way his face had changed over the years, from infant softness into the pre-adolescent child he was now. She could see echoes of Clint and Laura in his cheeks and his brow and the shape of his chin, and, strangely, hints of herself as well in the way his expressions changed, the way he raised his eyebrows or cocked a small smile when something amused him.

 

She reached out and touched his hair, stroking it gently back from his forehead with trembling fingers, her heart aching with love for him. She loved Lila, and Nate too, but Cooper--Cooper was different.

 

Cooper had been _hers_.

 

He stirred slightly, as if sensing her presence, and wormed one arm out of the covers, taking her hand from his hair and wrapping his arm around it, pulling it against him. Natasha felt a lump in her throat, and bent down as he tugged her closer. “Cooper,” she murmured. “Honey. I need my arm.”

 

“No,” he mumbled, still half-asleep. And then he opened his eyes, looking sleepily at her in the darkness of his bedroom, and gave her a small smile. “Aunt Nat,” he said, his voice still tinged with the heaviness of sleep, “I was having a dream about you.”

 

“You were?” Instinctively, she slipped her arm from his loosened grip and returned to stroking his hair gently.

 

“Uh-huh.” He turned his head contentedly into her touch, his other arm curling back around Mookey. “You and Dad and Mom were all together again with me and Lila and Nate. And you guys were all happy together.” He looked up at her, his eyes a little more alert now. When he spoke again, his voice was small. “I didn’t dream all of it, right? Dad really said all those things about you and him and Mom?”

 

Natasha swallowed, brushing her thumb against his cheekbone. “Yes, love. He did.”

 

“And they were true?” His face was hopeful. She nodded. Cooper chewed on his bottom lip. “Can I ask you something?”

 

She hesitated. Part of her wanted to say no, to tell him to go back to sleep. But he deserved some answers, she knew, and he deserved to hear them from her. “Of course,” she said. “You can ask me anything.”

 

Cooper was quiet for a few moments, his lower lip still worried between his teeth. And then he said, “Are you still in love with them?”

 

Natasha’s hand stilled in his hair. It wasn’t the question she was expecting. The answer that came immediately to her mind was _I’m not in love with anyone_ , her Red Room answer, wrapped  into her thoughts and her beliefs since her childhood, twined forever with _love is for children_ and _I have no place in the world_.

 

But, the romantic, idealistic part of her whispered, but it wasn’t true; it hadn’t been true for years. Marks of her presence were sewn into the fabric of this room, of this house--her mugs in the kitchen, photos of her (with Clint, with Laura, with the children, her eyes always sparkling in the way they never did anywhere else) on shelves and tables and tucked into small, secret nooks, her books on the shelves, stuffed toys she’d bought the kids mixed and mingled with the others that were always underfoot. Her perfume on Laura’s dresser, her spare guns in the locked case with Clint’s.

 

 _I have no place in the world_.

 

Laura’s hands, soft and tender and so strong. Clint’s smile--not his grin, not his smirk, but his smile, glowing with affection and pride and warmth. The sound of Lila’s laugh. Cooper’s brown eyes, Laura’s color and Clint’s shape.

 

Natasha closed her eyes, and when the word left her lips, it came in a whisper.

 

“Yes.”

 

A small hand touched her cheek, and Natasha opened her eyes--wet with tears, where had those come from?--and found him looking at her with calm, thoughtful eyes. Clint’s eyes, she thought, always seeing so much more than anyone gave him credit for her. “You should tell them so,” he said.

 

He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world, and Natasha almost wanted to laugh. Because maybe this was what _love is for children_ had always meant--that only children could see it, clearly and without twisting or pain, for what it was. “You think I should?”

 

Cooper smiled. “Yeah,” he said. And then he reached up and wrapped his arms around her neck, pressing his cheek against hers, and Natasha couldn’t do anything but hold him. She could feel herself shaking, and turned her head into the crook of his neck, breathing in the smell of his soap and the fabric softener that clung to his sheets and had seeped into his skin. Her sweet boy, so big now, so smart. She blinked back tears. “I love you,” Cooper said, his voice muffled into her neck.

 

Natasha squeezed her eyes shut, kissing Cooper’s cheek. “I love you too,” she whispered. “My smart, darling boy. I love you so much.”

 

He hung onto her tightly for a few moments more, and then let her go. His cheeks were wet with tears, and, absently, as she’d seen Laura do so many times over the years, Natasha licked her thumb and brushed the sticky moisture away. He sniffled, and then gave her a watery smile and a small shove. “Go on, Auntie Nat,” he said firmly. “Go talk to them.”

 

Natasha laughed softly, kissing his forehead. “Who’s the grown-up here, anyway?”

 

Cooper tightened his arm around Mookey, snuggling back down under his blanket. “You guys can be grown-ups when you stop being dummies about each other,” he mumbled. Then he cracked one eye open. “Don’t tell Mom I said you were dummies.”

 

“Done,” Natasha said. “Go to sleep, baby Barton.”

 

He yawned. “Okay,” he said, and closed his eyes.

 

Natasha sat with him until his breathing evened out once more, stroking his hair and thinking. Her face was tacky with dried tears, and her thoughts were spinning, torn between amusement and hesitation.

 

Six years of dancing around Clint and Laura, her heart broken and her insecurities holding her back, and her nine-year-old boy refused to tolerate any of it. She wondered, vaguely, what it must be like to live in such a simple world. Cooper’s face was soft and calm and almost smug, and Natasha touched his cheek once more with the back of her hand, trying to absorb some of his calm and steadiness. It was Laura’s steadiness too, she realized, and laughed softly, bending to kiss his forehead. As she straightened, her eyes fell on the picture that sat on the shelf above Cooper’s bed, of the day he had come home from the hospital, Cooper sleeping and swaddled in Laura’s arms, Clint and Natasha on either side of her, their faces weary and brilliant with love.

 

 _You have no place in the world_ , Madame B’s voice whispered through her mind.

 

Go to hell, Natasha thought. She took a breath, straightened her shoulders, and left the room. The light shining under Clint and Laura’s door told her they were still awake, and she made her way toward them, following the sound of her heart, still--after all this time--beating in time with theirs.

 

**2015**

 

“Sokovia?” Laura puts the laundry basket down on the bed and frowns, sitting down next to the basket and moving the phone to her other ear. “Where the hell is Sokovia? I’ve never heard of it.”

 

“Eastern Europe,” Clint says. “Right up in the corner of Romania, where Serbia meets Hungary. It’s tiny, barely makes it onto most maps, but I guess it’s gotten itself in the middle of a bunch of geopolitical crap before.”

 

Laura rubs one hand over her belly, then starts using it as a shelf to fold socks. “And you think the scepter is there?”

 

“That’s what our intel says.” He sounds tired, though, and Laura hums sympathetically. Their intel, so far, has not been excellent, which is why she’s seven months pregnant and her husband is still halfway across the country. “We’re shipping out tomorrow, going for the surprise attack.”

 

She folds one of Cooper’s shirts and sets it down on the bed. “What does Hydra see in a place like that?”

 

Clint snorts. “War-ravaged, poor, and full of people the rest of the world’s stopped caring about? What’s not for a bunch of neo-Nazis to like?”

 

Laura winces at that. “Clint,” she says.

 

“I know, I know.” He sighs. “What about you? How are you feeling?”

 

“I’m good. Tired, and cranky as hell if I don’t eat every hour or so, but I know how to sleep and I know how to eat, so that’s not so bad.” She pulls a sock out of the basket, peers into the basket to look for its match, and makes a face when she realizes it doesn’t have one. She sighs and puts it on the bed. She’ll use it for dusting if it’s buddy doesn’t turn up.

 

“And the baby?”

 

Laura smiles. “Also good,” she says, touching her belly again. The baby kicks under her hand. “He’s feisty.” They hadn’t meant to find out the baby’s sex, but certain things had been hard to miss at her last ultrasound. The tech, cackling apologetically, had explained that yes, in fact, baby boys _can_ get erections in the womb, and that all expectant parents tended to look like that after they saw one.

 

Clint chuckles. “Tell him to let you sleep. It’s not fair for him to keep you up before he’s even out here and crying.”

 

Laura rolls her eyes. “I think that went out the window when he started hanging out on my bladder,” she says.

 

Clint laughs, soft and a little wistful. “I miss you,” he says.

 

“I know. I miss you, too.” She hesitates. “How’s Nat?”

 

“She’s...good.” His voice is a little uncertain. “She’s been a little distant, since she found out about the baby. Not that I blame her, I guess, but...I don’t know. It just sucks, I guess.”

 

“I know, honey.” Natasha’s only come by the farm three times during this pregnancy, and while she’d been soft and attentive to Laura, there had been a hesitance to her touch that made it clear she wasn’t as comfortable as she’d been with her pregnancy with Lila. “But she’s going through her own stuff now, you know that. With everything that happened with SHIELD…”

 

“I know.” He sighs. “It’s just...She’s my person, y’know?”

 

“I do.” Laura pauses, and then frowns. “Wait,” she says. “Did you just--Clint Barton, did you just quote _Grey’s Anatomy_ to me?”

 

Clint groans, and there is the unmistakable sound of a forehead slapping into a palm. “Stark is making us catch Steve up on all the television he’s missed. We’ve been marathoning it on Netflix. It’s horrible and I’m obsessed with it and I hate everything so much, please let me come home.”

 

Laura pictures Captain America and Thor arguing the virtues of McDreamy versus McSteamy, and proceeds to laugh until the baby is kicking her in the ribs to stop her shaking and there are tears streaming down her face. “I love you,” she says, getting her breathing under control and wiping her eyes. “Please go get that scepter and come home in one piece.”

 

He laughs, and it’s low and warm. “Yes, ma’am.”

 

Natasha calls her late the next afternoon, just as she’s settled Cooper and Lila at the table, Cooper with his homework and Lila with a coloring book, to go start dinner. She picks up the phone as she makes her way into the kitchen, and then goes still when she sees the caller ID. Natasha calling her after a mission instead of Clint can’t be a good sign. She looks at the kids, and then slips into the study instead, closing the door most of the way before taking a breath and answering. “Natasha?”

 

“He’s okay,” Natasha says immediately.

 

Laura exhales a sigh, sitting down heavily in her desk chair and rubbing her hand over her belly, as if by reassuring the baby she can reassure herself. “Where is he?”

 

“Sleeping.” Natasha sounds exhausted. “He took a bad hit, but we got him home, and Dr. Cho used some tech on him that’s got him back in once piece with great recovery time--he’ll be good as new tomorrow, not even a scar. But I guess the healing process doesn’t totally cancel the shock and dehydration, so he’ll be out for a little while yet while his body sorts itself out. I thought I should call you.”

 

It takes Laura’s brain a few moments to sort through that information and determine that she missed her window to have a complete panic attack about Clint potentially dying, so she settles on her regular level of heightened worry and constant exasperation. “Did he do something stupid?”

 

“Not this time.” The smile in Natasha’s voice is faint, and Laura hears her own exasperation with Clint’s penchant for injury in it. “I think he was targeted. It makes sense, strategically; they were aiming for me, too. Take out the people with the fewest enhancements, make the team close ranks. Clint just happened to be closer to a weapon than I was.”

 

Laura, very resolutely, does not inform her how extremely unhelpful that particular tidbit of knowledge is, and settles instead for taking a deep breath and asking what she hopes is a safer question. “Are _you_ okay?”

 

“Right as rain,” Natasha says, with a forced lightness that does not even come close to fooling Laura.

 

Laura narrows her eyes. “Natasha,” she says, warning.

 

Natasha doesn’t respond right away. When she speaks, her voice is soft. “We got the scepter.”

 

Laura’s heart leaps in her chest. “That’s good, right?” It’s good. It’s definitely good. Getting Loki’s scepter back is the whole reason that Clint went back to the team. If it’s back in his hands, that means it’s over, that he’s coming home, and maybe he’ll even convince Nat to come with him--

 

“Yeah. Yes, of course it is. It’s just…” Natasha goes quiet for a moment. Then she sighs. “It’s selfish, but it’s been good having Clint at my six again. I’ll miss him when he goes home.”

 

“Oh.” Laura hesitates, rocking her chair slightly on its wheels across the floor as she tries to think of what to say. “You could come home with him,” she says. Natasha draws in a sharp breath, and Laura quickly covers her tracks. “Just to visit, I mean. The kids miss you.”

 

I miss you, she doesn’t say, but she hopes Natasha will hear it anyway.

 

“Well, if the kids miss me,” Natasha says, a smile curling around her words, “I’ll see if I can make something work.”

 

Five days later, they are home. Both of them.

 

And they’re not alone.

 

“Sorry I didn’t call ahead,” Clint says, weary and bruised and sheepish as she takes his face in her hands and kisses him, looks him over to make sure he’s really there, really safe. And then he’s introducing her to the Avengers--the Avengers. In her living room. Which is covered in toys and books and there are dishes in the sink, she is going to _kill him_ \--and the kids are running in and Lila is flinging herself into Natasha’s arms, and everything dissolves into absolute chaos.

 

She doesn’t get a moment alone with Natasha until much later, when she’s bringing more sheets upstairs and runs into Natasha coming down the stairs, dressed in the clothes she’d left at the farm the last time she’d been here and her face freshly made up. Her soft, nearly-natural makeup doesn’t hide the redness around her eyes, though, and Laura touches her arm, stopping her. “Hey,” she says.

 

Natasha smiles faintly at her. “Hey,” she says.

 

Laura keeps her touch gentle. She doesn’t really understand what happened to the Avengers that Clint had had to bring them here, but all she knows is that Nat has had her mind played with _again_ , and that’s more than enough for her to know that Natasha needs space, needs control. “Do you…” She hesitates, running her thumb lightly over the fabric of Natasha’s shirt. “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

Natasha presses her lips together, her gaze drifting down to Laura’s hand on her arm. Laura starts to move it away, but Natasha catches it, wraps her fingers around Laura’s. “I,” she begins, and then breaks off. She closes her mouth again, her eyes shining and her fingers trembling, and Laura’s heart clenches.

 

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, and takes Natasha gently by the arm, pulls her up the stairs. On the landing, she puts the sheets down on a side table and wraps Natasha into her arms, and Natasha curves herself instinctively around Laura’s belly, burying her face in Laura’s hair and breathing in deep. Laura closes her eyes, feeling them sting. She can’t blame her hormones for this one. “What happened?”

 

“I can’t--” Natasha shudders. “I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.”

 

Laura hates how broken her voice sounds. She wants to go find those _punks_ Clint told her about and give them a solid piece of her mind. “It’s all right. You don’t have to tell me.” She strokes Natasha’s hair, the strands still slightly damp from her shower, wishing she could fix all of this. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

 

Natasha’s arms tighten around her, an instant of fierce, almost desperate clinging, and then she lifts her head, giving Laura a small, wet smile. Laura reaches up and brushes her tears away with her thumbs. “Thanks,” Natasha says, and then seems to notice the sheets for the first time. “What are those for?”

 

It’s a clear change of subject, but Laura lets her get away with it. She’s known Natasha long enough to know when to push and when to let her be. “Well, in case you haven’t noticed, there’s a whole troop of Avengers and a former spymaster in my house,” she says. “So I’m making up every guest bed in the house, and figuring out how I’m going to inform those aforementioned Avengers that some of them are going to have to share a bed.”

 

Natasha raises an amused eyebrow. “That’s not going to fly.”

 

“Clint said the same thing,” Laura says. “But I can be very persuasive.”

 

She smiles, showing all her teeth, a trick she picked up from Nat years ago, and is rewarded with Natasha’s laugh. “I know you can,” Natasha says, and picks up some of the sheets. “Can I help you?”

 

Laura lets her smile soften. “Always,” she says, and Natasha smiles.

 

**2015 (August)**

 

“Do you think I was too hard on her?” Laura asked anxiously, leaning against the wall outside the bathroom.

 

Clint gestured pointedly to the toothbrush currently stuck in his mouth. Laura sighed. “Okay, well, finish, _then_ answer.”

 

He rolled his eyes and then spat toothpaste into the sink, rinsing his brush and then his mouth. He straightened, drying his face on a towel, then ran a hand through his hair. “You weren’t too hard on her,” he said, leaning back against the sink. He was dressed for bed, a faded t-shirt and a pair of boxers, but somehow still managed to look simultaneously adorable and deadly. His eyes were soft but contemplative as he looked at her, and she felt, as she so often did when he looked at her like that, like he could see right into her soul. “You’ve been carrying that around for a long time,” he said finally. “Haven’t you?”

 

Laura bit her lip. She hated that she’d all but yelled at Natasha, but she’d been _not_ yelling at Natasha for so long--she just couldn’t anymore. She nodded, and Clint sighed, pulling her gently into his arms. “I just...I’m so tired, Clint. I miss her so much, and she’s here, but she’s _not_ here…”

 

Clint pressed a kiss to the top of her hair. “I know,” he said. “But you’re the one who keeps telling me to give her her space.”

 

“But we _do_ give her space,” Laura said, frustrated. “She just can’t decide how much space she wants. Sometimes she barely touches us, and sometimes she--does whatever you two were doing in the barn today.” His back stiffened slightly, and she ran her fingertips along his spine, soothing. “I’m not mad at you,” she said quietly. “Jealous, maybe. But not mad.”

 

“I know.” He kissed her hair again. “I think…” He exhaled a long sigh, rubbing her back with one hand. “I think Nat doesn’t know what she wants, really. I think that’s why I can’t be as angry with her as I want to be, sometimes.”

 

Laura closed her eyes. “We’re a mess,” she mumbled into his chest.

 

“Yeah.” He squeezed her gently, then touched her chin, tilting her face up. She opened her eyes to meet his. “But we’ve got each other, right? Til death do us part, and all that shit?”

 

“All that shit?” She echoes. He grins, dipping his head to kiss her, and she makes a face but lets him. “Not so romantic, Mr. Barton.”

 

“You love me anyway, Mrs. Barton,” he teased, dipping one hand down to pat her backside before letting her go. “Come on. Let’s try and get at least a little kip before Nate wakes us up.”

 

He took her hand and she followed him out of the bathroom. She turned down the blankets of the bed, and was about to climb in when there was a soft knock at the door. Clint tilted his head toward it, and Laura sighed. A mother’s job is never over, she thought, and went to the door, expecting Cooper or Lila.

 

Instead, Natasha stood in the hallway, her expression uncertain, one hand still raised as if to knock again. “Hi,” she said softly, lowering her hand. “Can I...Can we talk?”

 

Surprised, Laura nodded, stepping back to let Natasha into the room. Natasha slipped past her and Laura closed the door with a gentle click. Laura followed her, taking in the hesitant, almost nervous way that she moved, her hands twitching at her sides. It was so unlike her that Laura almost frowned.

 

For a few moments they simply stood there together, three points of a triangle, locked together at equal points, close enough to touch but not reaching for each other.

 

Finally, Natasha took a deep breath, and spoke. “I talked to Steve,” she said. “He’s going to have Tony book me a flight. I’ll head out tomorrow.”

 

Laura felt her heart crack in her chest. She’d been so sure that…She swallowed. “Okay,” she said.

 

But Natasha didn’t leave, just looked back and forth between the two of them, her lower lip trembling. “I--” she began, and then took another long, slow breath. “I wanted to tell you that I--”

 

She broke off again, her shoulders shaking and her expression tight. Laura looked at her, concern tugging her lips down, as Natasha clearly tried to get her thoughts in order, her lips pressed together as she seemed to be attempting to force words past them. Long seconds passed in silence, and Laura finally couldn’t take it anymore. “Natasha,” she said. “I’m sorry for what I said. I know you--”

 

“I love you,” Natasha said, all in a rush, the words spilling out of her like a waterfall.

 

Laura froze. Clint, who had begun to move forward, went very, very still.

 

In all their years, all their many, many years, Natasha had never said that, not to them. She’d said it to the kids, because they wouldn’t have understood if she hadn’t, but not to them, because love was for children, and for all the emotions she had shown them over the years, all the things she’d whispered and moaned and promised, she’d never said _love_.

 

Now, she stood there in front of them, shaking like a leaf, staring at them with wide eyes as if she couldn’t believe what she’d said. And Laura, who had dreamed of this moment for years, had so carefully planned out, over and over, how she would respond if this moment ever came, found herself speechless.

 

Clint spoke, his voice barely a whisper. “Natasha,” he said. Just her name, but it fell from his lips like a prayer, and Laura realized that he had waited for this for even longer than she had, had loved Natasha since he was barely more than a child himself. “Nat.”

 

Natasha stared at him, her eyes brimming with tears. “I love you,” she said again, a little stronger this time. “I--I miss you, and I love you, and I’m sorry, and--”

 

Clint moved so quickly he was nearly a blur, cupping her face into his hands and sweeping her into a fierce kiss. Natasha made a sound that was almost a sob and dug her fingers into his back, clinging to him as she kissed him back with a desperation that looked almost painful. Laura’s feet were moving before she even realized it, bringing her close enough to them that when Natasha broke away from Clint, tears streaking down her face, she was already there to pull Natasha into her arms.

 

Natasha’s lips parted instantly under hers, and Laura started to cry at the tenderness of the kiss, her heart so full she thought it might burst in her chest. “No,” Natasha whispered, pulling away and stroking her thumbs over Laura’s cheeks, “No, Laura, please don’t cry.”

 

Laura sucked in a breath, her heart catching in her throat. “Say it again,” she demanded, because she needed to hear it again, she needed to never stop hearing it. “Please say it again.”

 

“I love you,” Natasha said, and Laura kissed her again. Her knees trembled and Natasha’s hands closed over her elbows, holding her steady with the strength that Laura had always loved in her, steel-strong but as gentle as the wind. “I love you so much.”

 

“Nat,” Clint said, and Natasha turned to look at him, her eyes shining. Clint touched her cheek and Natasha shuddered, leaning into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed. “Tasha.”

 

Natasha took a shaking breath, and when she opened her eyes again, they burned. “Clint,” she said. “Please.”

 

The low groan that came from Clint’s throat went straight to Laura’s gut, and he swept forward, pulling Natasha against him again. She twined her fingers into his hair and tugged once, and Clint _pushed_ , pressing her back against the wall. Her back hit with a dull thud, and Natasha’s knees tensed, the only warning before she pushed herself up and wrapped her legs around Clint’s waist. Clint moved his grip to hold her up, the muscles of his back rippling under the thin fabric of his shirt, and Laura followed his movements, slipping her hands under his shirt and running her fingers down his ribs.

 

Clint broke away from Natasha’s lips with a shudder, trying to look over his shoulder at her. “Laur,” he said, and she moved into his line of sight, her cheeks warm and flushed. He shifted, holding Natasha up against the wall on the strength of one arm and her thighs--Laura’s cheeks went warmer at the thought--and curled his free hand over the back of her neck, pulling her in to kiss her. He tasted like Natasha and she leaned into the kiss with a whimper.

 

She felt breathless when they parted, looking into Clint’s eyes and then into Natasha’s, seeing her own hesitation and need reflected in both of them. “I,” she began, and then took a breath. “Bed?”

 

The question came out soft and hopeful, and she heard the uncertainty in it and nearly wince. Clint glanced at Natasha, his own answer clear in his eyes, and Natasha smiled, small and almost shy. “Yes.”

 

Clint’s smile could have outshone the sun.

 

Laura tugged gently on Clint’s hand, and he brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them before letting her go, wrapping both arms around Natasha’s waist to hold her up as he carried her to bed, kissing her as he went. Laura climbed onto the bed and held out her arms, and Clint laughed, depositing Natasha gently into them. Laura bent her head to kiss Natasha’s neck, and Natasha shivered. Laura drew back, touching her cheek with trembling fingers. “Are you okay?”

 

Natasha opened her eyes. “I’m good,” she said. Concern flickered in her eyes, and she reached up to touch Laura’s jaw. “Are you? Up for this, I mean?”

 

Laura blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

 

Clint dragged his shirt over his head and cocked an eyebrow. “Laura,” he said, and pointed to Nate’s crib.

 

She flushed. “Oh,” she said, and took a moment to take stock of her body, because she owed them that--she had never met two people firmer about sex and honesty than them, and forcing her body into something it wasn’t ready for wouldn’t go over well. Her six-week check up with her OB had gone well, and she’d technically gotten the okay for sex, but she wasn’t back on birth control, her breasts were aching, and she wasn’t quite sure how much she was up for. She chewed her bottom lip. “I’ll take things easy,” she said finally. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Clint’s eyes glinted slightly, and Natasha smiled. “I wouldn’t want you to,” she said, and tilted her face up.

 

Laura kissed her, gently, and then shifted back on the pillows, opening her legs. “Come here,” she said firmly. Eyes sparkling, Natasha tugged her shirt over her head--Laura didn’t bother to hide her stare--and settled between Laura’s legs, her back to Laura’s front. Laura kept her tank top on but pulled it up under her breasts so that she could feel the warmth of Natasha’s skin against her belly. Natasha shuddered, and Laura kissed her neck and smiled before glancing up at Clint, who watched them with eyes that were so full of emotion Laura nearly cried again. “Clint,” she said. His gaze snapped to her, and she smiled at him, letting her teeth glint. “Go to work.”

 

He grinned. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. He tossed his shirt away, climbed onto the bed, and bent his head.

 

Natasha had always been responsive in bed; whatever chemicals flowing through her veins that kept her young and fast and brilliant also made her nerves sing when they touched her, made her skin flush pink where Clint’s lips and hands made contact. Laura watched, running her fingertips over Natasha’s ribs and breasts and hair, whispering a litany of _I love you_ s into her ear, and Natasha shivered against her, turning her face to kiss Laura’s cheek and neck and lips, whatever she could reach.

 

Clint moved down Natasha’s body slowly, gently, like a man retracing steps over a long-loved path too long missed. His hands traced over her skin with an almost careful tenderness, and Natasha arched and bit down on a cry when his fingers dipped into her, did it again when he followed his fingers with his mouth.

 

Laura knew that Clint knew Natasha’s body as well as he knew his own, knew every spot that made her shudder and tremble and moan. She knew that he could bring her off in minutes--less, if he was short on time or just showing off--that the slow, lazy smirk that usually curved his lips whenever Natasha whimpered under him was as much was an indication of his pleasure as much as hers. But now, his expression was soft and almost reverent as he touched her, his eyes closed. Laura reached past Natasha to touch his cheek with trembling fingers, and his eyes fluttered open, his pupils blown wide as he looked up at her.

 

Her husband wasn’t a religious man, but right now, he looked like a man at prayer.

 

Natasha arched her back with a muffled cry when Clint slid into her, his lips on hers and her thighs wrapping around his waist. Laura bent her head to kiss Natasha’s neck, and Natasha shuddered between them, reaching one hand back to curl it around Laura’s neck, pulling her closer. “Please,” she whispered, and Laura smiled against her skin.

 

Clint kept his movements slow and careful, but clearly intentionally so, and Natasha’s moans took on a frustrated tone. She dug the fingers of one hand into his shoulder, and Clint hissed, eyes dark, his smile going sharp and wicked. “ _Clint_ ,” Natasha bit out.

 

His teeth flashed white. “Yes, dear?”

 

Natasha dug her nails in harder, and Laura laughed, kissing Natasha’s neck again. “Clint,” she said, and he looked up at her. She paused. Part of her wanted to make Natasha _work_ for it, but she loved her too much, had waited too long, to make her feel like she didn’t deserve everything in the world. “Be nice,” she decided.

 

Clint smiled, bending and dropping a light, teasing kiss to Natasha’s lips, laughing softly when she tried to follow him as he pulled away. Then he changed his angle, just a fraction, and Natasha gasped, arched her back, and came apart.

 

She was still shaking with aftershocks when she moved, pushing Clint down and onto his back, straddling his hips and sinking down onto him with a sigh, her head falling back. Clint’s hands found her hips, his fingers digging in, and Laura stretched out next to him, turning his face so she could kiss him. She’d barely been touched, but her body felt warm and taut, and she couldn’t help shuddering as Clint shifted to wrap an arm around her shoulders, his hand drifting down over her spine and then squeezing her backside. “More of that,” she murmured against his skin, and he chuckled, squeezing again, and she rocked herself against Natasha’s knee where it pressed against Clint’s side until pure, sweet pleasure broke over her in waves.

 

It was her first orgasm since before Nate was born and it took her a long time to come back down, and when she opened her eyes again, Clint and Natasha were staring at her, their faces identical reflections of adoration and softness. “God, you’re beautiful,” Natasha whispered, and Laura smiled, shaking and sated, reaching up to trace her fingertips over Natasha’s cheek.

 

“ _You’re_ beautiful,” she murmured, and Natasha smiled, turning her face to kiss Laura’s palm. “Say it one more time?”

 

Natasha’s lips curved, her eyes bright with tears. “I love you,” she said. She rolled her hips, and Clint arched under her, a rough groan sliding past his lips. Natasha’s gaze flickered to him, and her smile broadened. “And I love _you_ ,” she said.

 

Clint dug his fingers into her hips. She’d have bruises tomorrow, Laura thought, and flushed all over again. “Show me,” he said, low and hoarse, and Natasha’s smirk went sharp.

 

Natasha cried out before the end, her body shaking through another climax when Clint’s spine curved and he shuddered into her, his arms tight around her waist. Laura covered Clint’s shoulder and Natasha’s thigh with kisses, running her fingers over their skin, determined to touch every inch of them she could reach.

 

Clint’s head dropped back down onto the bed with a dull thump when he finally stopped shaking, and Natasha collapsed down onto his other side, breathing hard. “Fuck,” Clint managed, fairly effectively voicing Laura’s thoughts. Then he laughed, breathless. “We still got it.”

 

Laura giggled, tucking her head against his shoulder and kissing his bicep, and Natasha muffled a soft laugh into his other arm. Laura reached across Clint’s chest to brush her fingers through Natasha’s sweat-dampened hair, and Natasha lifted her head to smile at her, small and sweet and shy. “I don’t think we ever lost it,” Laura said softly.

 

Natasha looked at her for a long moment, her cheeks wet and her eyes bright. “You know,” she said, her voice thick with emotion and warm with love, “you might be right.”

 

**2015**

 

“Get your ass on a boat,” she tells him, and he laughs.

 

The next time she sees him it’s hours later, and he’s bloodstained and pale, with circles under his eyes so deep she can’t believe he’s conscious. “God,” she says, looking up at him. “You look like shit.”

 

Clint laughs, low and humorless and weary. “Thanks, Romanoff,” he says, stepping back to let her into the room he’s claimed for himself. He’s still in his uniform, blood smeared over his arms and dirt all over his face. He sits down heavily on the cot, wincing, and puts one hand to his side.

 

Natasha frowns, stepping forward. “You’re hurt?”

 

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, shoulders slumping tiredly. He pulls his hand away from his side as if to show her, but his palm comes away bloody. He looks down at it like he’s confused. “Oh,” he says.

 

She sighs. “Damn it, Barton,” she says. She moves past him to the ensuite and rummages around under the sink until she finds a first aid kit, then goes back into the room and drops the kit down on the bed. “Off,” she tells him, opening the kit and pulling on a pair of gloves.

 

Clint gives an exhausted snort. “Buy a guy a drink first,” he says, but starts unfastening the buckles anyway.

 

The gash on his side is jagged and messy, the bleeding is sluggish, and it doesn’t look deep. Natasha digs out an alcohol pad and sets to cleaning it, not bothering to warn him, and he doesn’t protest the sting. “You should’ve gotten this looked at sooner,” she chides, letting some of her concern slip into her voice.

 

His eyes slip closed. “It’s not bad.”

 

“You’re lucky it’s not infected,” she says, grimacing at the grime on the pad and tossing it away, opening a new one.

 

“Yeah, well. I was busy.” He’s quiet as she cleans the wound. “The Maximoff kid,” he says. “Did you hear?”

 

His voice is heavy, thick with exhaustion and regret. “Yes,” she says. “I heard.”

 

“It should have been me.”

 

Natasha still her hands. “Clint,” she says. He doesn’t open his eyes, and she frowns, putting the pad down and cupping his face in her hands. “Clint, look at me.”

 

Clint opens his eyes with clear reluctance, looking up at her. His eyes look old and tired, his face more heavily lined than she usually pictures it in her head. It might be the dust caked into his skin, making him look older than he is. But then, part of her will always see Clint as the hollow-eyed nineteen-year-old she’d picked up off the streets of Detroit so many years ago. She runs her thumbs through the dust and dirt on his cheekbones, gentling her touch when she traces over a bruise. “He made his own choice,” she says quietly. “There’s nothing you could have done.”

 

“He was a kid, Nat,” he says dully. “Just a kid.”

 

“We were all kids once, Clint.” She shakes him, just to put a hint of a spark back into his eyes. “You wouldn’t have done the same thing at his age, to get a dad back home to his kids?”

 

Clint’s lashes flicker, just slightly, and then he sighs, closing his eyes again. “I promised Laura I’d come home,” he murmurs. “I promised I’d be home, and I almost didn’t. I wouldn’t, if that kid hadn’t--”

 

He shudders slightly, and Natasha takes one hand off his cheek, strokes it through her hair. “Clint,” she says. “You can’t do that to yourself.”

 

“I know.” He swallows visibly, his throat working. “I know.”

 

It’s clear the conversation is over, and Natasha lets him end it, picking up a gauze pad and pressing it in place over the cut on his side, taping it down.

 

“Hey,” Clint says when she’s done, and has dropped heavily down to sit next to him. “Are _you_ okay?”

 

“Fine.” Natasha glances at him. “Why?”

 

“I just…” He hesitates, pulling his torn undershirt back on with a wince, and then shrugs and goes on. “I heard Bruce rabbited.”

 

“Oh. That.” Natasha looks down at her hands. They’re red in places with Clint’s blood, and she pulls another wipe from the first aid kit, wiping it away. There’s more blood on her hands than she can see, but this, at least, she can clean off. “Yeah.”

 

He nudges her gently. “Wanna talk about it?”

 

She snorts. “No.” She does, sort of. But not now, and not with him. Later, maybe, when all the dust has settled, she’ll find a bottle of vodka and make Maria share it with her. She glances at him, though, and his eyes are gentle and attentive. She softens. It would break his heart, she knows, hearing her talk about Bruce, but he’d do it, because he’s Clint and he loves her. She returns his gentle nudge. “Thank you, though.”

 

“Yeah, well.” Clint ducks his head, gives her a tired smile. He holds out his hand, palm up, and she slips her own into it, laces her fingers with his. His fingers are still bloody, and she has a moment to wonder whose blood it is before he laughs softly, wearily. “God,” he says. “We’re such a fucking mess.”

 

“Yeah.” She squeezes her hand. “Still together, though. Strike Team Delta.”

 

Clint smiles, weary and old, but still his, the smile he holds just for her, warm and soft and fond. “Til the end of the line, Romanoff,” she says. She leans her head against his shoulder, and he drops his against hers, a little harder than she had.

 

“Ouch,” she mumbles, just to be petulant.

 

“Deal with it,” he says, and she smiles.

 

Clint goes home when the dust settles, and she tries not to be jealous, tries not to miss him. She helps Steve and Stark design a training facility for the new SHIELD-Avengers team-up, and it comes together so efficiently it’s actually a little surprising.

 

She spends most of her time with Maria Hill, because of everyone on the base, Maria’s the closest to her in temperament and tolerance. Maria takes approximately no shit from anyone, from Stark to Fury, which has earned her Natasha’s respect over the years, and has excellent taste in alcohol, which makes her Natasha’s favorite person on the base.

 

“You’re moping,” Maria tells her over an excellent Red Bordeaux on a cool night in early July. “You’ve _been_ moping. Why are you moping?”

 

“I’m not _moping_ ,” Natasha says.

 

She is absolutely moping. Laura’s due in a week, and Natasha hasn’t seen her since the team spent the night at the farm after Wanda’s attack in South Africa. Clint’s been to the base twice, both short visits barely lasting more than a day, and she misses him like she’d miss her right arm. She’s been sure, for months now, that Laura or Clint will call and ask her to come ho--ask her to come see them, but they haven’t.

 

And she knows why, she _gets_ why, she’s shot herself in the foot with them more than once and probably put the last nail in her coffin with the whole Bruce thing, but...it still hurts.

 

She drinks more wine. “I’m not moping,” she says again. “I’m just…”

 

Maria gives her a pointed look, reminding Natasha that while she usually appreciates that Maria takes no shit, it can occasionally backfire on her. “You’re moping,” she says flatly. “And it better not be about Banner, because I swear, Natasha, I am not listening to this again without something stronger than wine, and you drank all my vodka.”

 

“ _We_ drank all your vodka,” Natasha corrects, a little sullenly. “And it’s not about Banner.” Well, it is, sort of. But not completely. “It’s…”

 

She trails off. Maria sighs, drains her glass, and picks up the bottle. “About Barton? Or, more accurately, Mrs. Barton, and baby-Barton-to-be?”

 

Natasha startles. “What? No.”

 

Maria pours both of them new glasses, then picks up her own and leans back on the couch, crossing her bare feet at the ankles. “Natasha,” she says, her voice tinged with amusement, “You are a brilliantly trained professional. Barton is a...decently trained professional. But Laura is _not_ a trained professional. And she doesn’t have a good poker face.”

 

“She does, actually,” Natasha says into her glass. To be fair, though, Laura keeps her poker face around her family much better than she does around Clint’s colleagues. She tilts her glass slightly, watching the legs of the wine slide down along the sides of glass. “How long have you known?”

 

Maria’s eyes, slightly hazy from wine, go soft and a little pained. “Since Syria.”

 

Instinctively, Natasha tightens her grip on her glass, and has to force herself to relax her fingers before she breaks the delicate stem. The Beirut op that had landed her and Clint in a Ten Kings compound in Syria had been a clusterfuck from start to finish, and while her skin has healed most wounds without a trace since her childhood, Clint still has the scars from that particular mess carved into his skin, and it had taken a long time for the anxious, worried look to fade from Laura’s eyes whenever she looked at them. Maria, she knew, had been the one to go and tell Laura they were missing, had been the one to pull them out, had been there on the jet when Natasha, bleeding and weary and hurting and fresh from fucking an exhausted Clint in the plane’s tiny bathroom, had talked to Laura with new tears stinging in her eyes at the sweet relief in Laura’s voice.

 

Maria was a smart woman. Natasha shouldn’t be surprised that she’d figured it out. “It’s a complicated thing,” she says.

 

“They always are,” Maria says with a wry smile.

 

It occurs to Natasha that she knows very little about Maria’s love life, beyond the fact that it involves a lot of women and some very high heels. Someday, she thinks, they’ll exchange stories, but not today. “I want to be there,” Natasha says. “When the baby’s born. But they haven’t...they haven’t asked me. I think they don’t want me there.”

 

Maria frowns. “Why wouldn’t they? I thought you were all…” She makes a vague gesture. “Like, some open thing. Hence Banner.”

 

“Not exactly,” Natasha says.

 

She gives her the abridged version of their long, messy history, and even the abridged version is long enough that they finish their bottle of wine and move onto another one.

 

“So basically,” Maria says when Natasha finally finishes, “you fucked up?”

 

“I didn’t _fuck up_ ,” Natasha says, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping the arm not holding her glass around them. “It was the right thing to do, when I did it. I was a mess, I didn’t have my head under control, Laura was pregnant--I wasn’t safe to be there.”

 

“That was then,” Maria points out. “This is now. What’s your excuse _now_?”

 

Natasha looks into her glass. “That I’m a mess?” She offers.

 

Maria snorts. “You are,” she says. “But not for the reasons you think.” She drinks the rest of her glass, sets it down, and leans forward. “Look,” she says, not unkindly. “You’re a spy and an assassin, and a damn good one. You had violence carved into you by a shady Russian agency, and that’d fuck _anybody_ up--it’s amazing you’ve got your shit together as much as you do.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Natasha says, a little careless. “I’ve had a lot of therapy.”

 

“Good,” Maria says bluntly. “But Nat, the work we do, it’s dark and it’s messy and it screws us all up, and we’ve gotta take the good stuff when we can get it. Even if we don’t think we deserve it. Even if we think we’re gonna dirty it up. Because chances are…” She laughs, a little softly, a little sadly, and it makes Natasha wonder, fleetingly, about the rest of Maria’s story, the chapters she doesn’t know yet. “Chances are we’re not looking at ourselves as clearly as other people do. Stuff always looks worse from the inside.”

 

Natasha takes that in, tries to process through the slightly murky, wine-muddled soup of her mind. She breathes in, and her voice trembles when she speaks. “What if I fuck it up again?”

 

Maria smiles, a tilt of her lips that’s surprisingly warm. “We all fuck up,” she says, shrugging one shoulder. “You pull on your big girl panties and you fix it.”

 

Natasha huffs a laugh. “My therapist would love you.”

 

“We’ve probably got the same one,” Maria says dryly. “SHIELD doesn’t have _that_ many on staff.” She leans forward, picking up the bottle again. “Alright,” she announces. “We’re finishing this. And in the morning, you’re making a phone call. You’ve got a birth to go to.”

 

In the end, she doesn’t make a call at all, because her phone rings at an ungodly hour of the morning while she’s still sleeping off the third bottle of wine on Maria’s couch. She fumbles around in the cushions, ardently refusing to open her eyes, and answers the phone without looking at the ID just to shut up the fucking ringing. “Romanoff,” she mumbles.

 

“Hi,” Laura says, light and a little breathless. “What are you doing right now?”

 

Natasha lifts her head with some effort, squints at the time, and winces. “At four in the morning?”

 

“Well, it’s three, here.”

 

“Okay,” Natasha says, pushing herself into a sitting position. Fucking knock-off Red Room serum. She bets Steve doesn’t get hangovers. “I was sleeping. What are you doing?”

 

“Um,” Laura says. “I’m in labor.”

 

Her mind, miraculously and through the sheer power of shock, clears. “You’re _what?_ ” She stumbles to her feet, regrets it instantly, and sits back down. “Are you okay? Where’s Clint?”

 

“He’s running around packing a hospital bag, because this child is a week early and is throwing off our schedule,” Laura says. She sounds only mildly annoyed. Natasha will never cease to be amazed by her. “Anyway, we were--well--”

 

She breaks off, hesitant, and Natasha waits, hoping, _hoping_ , barely breathing. When Laura speaks again, it’s in a small, hopeful voice. “We were wondering if you’d like to be here. For the baby, I mean. I--We--We know that you’re not, that you don’t want--” She takes a breath, a steadying one, Natasha thinks, not for a contraction. “We just...Will you come? Please?”

 

“Yes,” Natasha breathes. “Laura, yes, of course. I’ll be there. I’ll leave right now.”

 

“Oh, thank God,” Laura says, and then, “Oh, _fuck_. Um. You should hurry, maybe.”

 

“Right,” Natasha says, and hangs up. She looks around the dark apartment, has no clue where her shoes are, and goes to wake Maria, because she needs a plane, and she needs a plane _now_.

 

She skids into the hospital six hours later, still slightly hungover and mostly dressed. Clint meets her in the lobby, catches her by the arm when she nearly runs past him, and breaks out laughing as he looks at her. “Jesus, Nat,” he says. “Are you _drunk_?”

 

“No,” she says. “I was drunk last night. Why aren’t you with Laura?”

 

Clint grins sheepishly. “She threw me out,” he says. “Told me that my pacing was making her nervous, and that if she had to look at me anymore she’d punch me in the face for, and I quote, ‘doing this to her again.’” He looks mournful. “I thought I was doing a really good job keeping my shit together.”

 

Natasha snorts. “You always do,” she says. “Come on. You can buy me a coffee so that I don’t go see her looking like shit, and then we’ll go have your baby.”

 

He gives her an appraising look. “You might need more than one coffee,” he says, but he settles his hand on the small of her back and guides her down the hall to the cafeteria.

 

The coffee isn’t good, but it’s not atrocious. She gets an entire cup into her before she can really think straight--she thinks that she may have left half of her brain on Maria’s couch--and Clint slides a second cup across to her with a grin. “So,” he says. “What was going on that you were getting trashed on a Tuesday?”

 

Natasha thinks about lying, because Laura’s having a baby and Clint’s probably so excited and she shouldn’t ruin this for him. But it’s Clint, and she can’t lie to him, not really. “Bruce has been gone for over a month now,” she says, looking down into her coffee. “And I don’t think he’s coming back.”

 

Clint’s quiet for a long moment, his expression carefully unreadable, and then he says, “That sucks, Nat.”

 

It’s such a _Clint_ answer that she laughs despite herself, dropping her head into one hand. “Really, Clint? ‘That sucks’?”

 

He shrugs. “Well, it does.” He leans back in his chair. “You wanna tell me what happened?”

 

Natasha curves her hands around the paper cup. “I fucked up,” she says. She says it quietly, but she says it, because it’s true, and it’s only right that she admit it. “I pushed him, and I forced him into Hulking out. And I did it…” She sighs. “It was what needed to happen. I know that. We needed him, to beat Ultron, I know that. But after everything I’ve told myself about being in control, about making your own choices…”

 

“Nat.” He reaches across the table, curls warm, rough fingers over her wrist. She forces herself to look at him. “You did it because we needed him,” he says softly. “We’ve all had to do fucked up stuff in fights.”

 

She shakes her head. “Not like this.”

 

“Exactly like this,” he says, a little sharply. “You think I haven’t taken shots I didn’t like? You think Steve hasn’t? Hill hasn’t?” He squeezes her wrist, hard enough that pain flares through her skin, and she sucks in a breath, leaning into the pain, feeling more alive, more _full_ , at that touch of than she has in _weeks_. “You let it eat you, Nat, and it’ll eat you alive.”

 

“So what do I do instead?” She demands. It comes out angry, but she doesn’t mean it angry. She takes a breath, tries again. “What do I do instead, Clint? Because I don’t know how to make it right.”

 

“Maybe you can’t,” he says simply. “Maybe Bruce forgives you, maybe he doesn’t. It’ll take awhile to build back that trust, if it happens at all. But whatever it is, it’s his move now.”

 

Natasha swallows, looking down at his hand where it curves around her arm. His calluses feel different, she thinks, and then realizes with a jolt that he’s got new ones, farm-bred and fresh, mingled in with the archery-and-gun roughness she knows so well. “Then what do I do now?”

 

“Now?” Clint smiles, warm like summer sunshine. “Now we go upstairs and help Laura have a baby.” He takes her coffee, chugs it down, and makes a face. “That,” he says, tossing the empty cup into the closest trash can with predictable and unerring accuracy, “is disgusting. Come on.”

 

He holds out his hand for hers, and she takes it. In that moment, she can’t imagine doing anything else.

 

Laura’s breathing hard and practically crushing a nurse’s hand in hers when they get to her room, and she fixes Clint with a furious glare. “ _Clint_ ,” she says through gritted teeth, low and murderous. “Where the hell have you _been_?”

 

Clint, wisely, does not say anything stupid like ‘well, you kicked me out.’ Natasha’s almost proud of him. Instead, he grins. “Just picking up your push present, dear,” he says cheerfully.

 

Laura gives him a look of bewildered confusion that gives way to a radiant smile as Clint drags Natasha out from behind him. “Tasha,” she gasps, reaching for her, and Natasha doesn’t even need Clint’s pointed shove forward to cross the room to her. Without thinking, she smoothes Laura’s sweat-dampened hair off her brow, and Laura beams at her. “You’re _here_.”

 

“Of course I’m here,” Natasha says, swallowing around the lump in her throat. “I said I would be.”

 

“But you really _are,_ ” Laura says, and she sounds so overwhelmed and amazed and full of love that Natasha’s eyes start to sting. She smiles, watery and sweet. “You’re really here.”

 

Clint’s hand touches her back, gentle and steadying and strong, and Natasha bends down, touching Laura’s forehead with hers. ‘I really am,” she says.

 

She doesn’t mean it to, but it sounds like a promise, and Laura’s smile grows.

 

Their baby--and Natasha tells herself that _their_ is Clint and Laura, not Clint and Laura and her, but her heart seizes all the same--is born healthy and squirming and wailing, and Natasha will never, ever not be amazed by this, by the sight of Laura bringing a new person into the world. The midwife hands the baby, still messy and wriggling, up to Laura, and he quiets as soon as she touches him. Laura runs her thumb over his cheek and then bends her head, kissing his tiny, perfect forehead. “Hello, sweetheart,” she whispers, her voice exhausted and proud, and the baby splays the fingers of one tiny hand against her face. She makes a sound that borders on a sob, and Natasha runs her fingers through her hair, presses a firm kiss to her hair, and Laura’s laugh is soft and breathless.

 

“God, just look at him,” Clint breathes, leaning over Laura’s shoulder and touching the baby’s cheek with trembling fingers. Natasha thinks back over all the times that Clint has confessed his fears that his hands will never build anything but violence, and the tenderness of that touch makes her want to cry.

 

And then Laura looks up at her, eyes bright and shining with joy, and Natasha realizes that she’s already crying, has been since the clench of Laura’s fingers on hers during her final push and the sound of the baby’s first cry. “Tasha,” Laura says, just her name, sweet and soft. Laura has always said her name like a love song. “Do you want to hold him?”

 

Her heart jumps, but Natasha forces herself to hold back. “I--Shouldn’t it be Clint?”

 

Clint shakes his head. “I held Lila first,” he says, as if that’s relevant. “It’s your turn.”

 

Natasha tries to protest, but the midwife is already moving, taking the baby gently from Laura and wrapping him in a blanket. And then he’s in Natasha’s arms, squirming to get closer to the warmth of her chest, and he’s so small, and so perfect, and the rest of the world falls away around her. “Oh,” she whispers, looking down at him. He’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. “Oh, hello, darling. Welcome to the world.”

 

She feels a soft pressure as Laura’s head leans against her arm, exhausted and warm, and then the long-familiar scent of Clint’s skin as he rests his chin gently on her shoulder. It’s not an embrace, really, and she knows she can’t stay, that this fragile, moment can’t last.

 

But for now, overwhelmed with emotion and so full of love she thinks she might burst, she pretends that it can.

 

**2015 (August)**

 

Natasha woke warm and comfortable, morning sunlight streaming through the windows and strong arms looped around her middle. For a few minutes, she kept her eyes closed, just listening to the sounds of the house--the patter of the kids’ feet downstairs, the rustle of the curtains, the gentle swell and fall of Clint’s breathing at her back. Unfortunately, the pressure in her bladder wouldn’t let her fall back to sleep, and she sighed, cracking one eye open and pushing herself up.

 

Immediately, the arms around her tightened. “No,” Clint mumbled into her back. “Not allowed.”

 

His voice was a sleepy grumble, more cranky than horny, despite the morning wood she could feel nudging her thigh, and she laughed softly, shoving him. “Clint,” she said. He didn’t loosen his grip. “Clint, come on. I have to pee.”

 

He made a disgruntled sound but let her up, and she took the time to take her pillow and drop it onto his head before heading into the ensuite to use the bathroom. Her body ached pleasantly, and the mirror above the sink showed the evidence of last night written across her skin. She touched one of the faint pink marks at her collarbone and smiled lightly. That would have been Laura. Clint, despite all evidence to the contrary, could be surprisingly restrained in bed, but Laura liked to leave marks.

 

Rolling her shoulders back to stretch them, she ran a hand through her hair and went back to the bedroom in time to see Clint pulling a t-shirt over his head. “Hey,” she said. “You’re up.”

 

“Mmph,” he said, more of a grunt than a word.

 

Natasha shot him an amused look, bending down to retrieve her discarded bra from the floor. “Where’s Laura?”

 

“She got up with the baby about an hour ago.” Clint dragged on a worn pair of jeans and began rummaging through his dresser for a t-shirt. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

 

Natasha glanced up at him, halfway through stepping into her underwear. “I didn’t wake up?” She asked, surprised.

 

He snorted. “You were out cold,” he said. “Kid woke up twice more last night, and you slept right through it.”

 

She flushed, sitting down on the edge of the bed to work on her jeans. “I was tired,” she said.

 

Clint shot her a smirk. “Damn right you were,” he said. She threw a sock at him. He plucked it out of the air, arched a _really?_ eyebrow at her, and threw it back. “The kids are going out with Mike again today,” he said, pulling his shirt over his head. “Guess they did such a good job at the Humane Society that the volunteers want them back.”

 

“I’ll go see them.” Natasha picked up her shirt, pulling it on as she headed for the door.

 

“Nat,” Clint said. She paused, glancing over her shoulder, and found him looking at her with a strange expression, a mixture of hesitation and confusion and uncertainty, and then he shook his head slightly. “Nothing. Go ahead. I’ll see you down there.”

 

Natasha raised an eyebrow at him, but made her way down the hall to her own bedroom, picking up her phone from the bedside table to check her messages. She had a few from Maria complaining about recruits, but the one she was looking for was from Stark: _Pepper’s leaving from Malibu at 10. I’ll have her pit stop and pick you up. Can I send the hawklings some arrows???_

 

She rolled her eyes, typing back _no explosives before age 10_ , and changed her clothes, shoving the dirty ones she’d put back on from Clint’s floor into her duffel and packing the rest of the bag. It didn’t take long--she’d barely unpacked since they had gotten home yesterday morning. Her phone buzzed again as she was zipping it closed, and she opened the message to see a selfie featuring an exaggerated pout. Natasha snorted and slipped the phone into her pocket, shouldering her bag and heading downstairs.

 

Lila and Cooper were halfway through breakfast when Natasha got downstairs. "Auntie Nat!" Lila said gleefully around her bite of cereal. "We're going to play with animals some more!"

 

"So I heard," Natasha said, smiling at her. "That sounds very exciting."

 

Cooper frowned. "How come you have your bag?"

 

Lila followed her brother's eyes, and her smile disappeared in an instant. At the kitchen counter, holding Nate in one arm and pouring a cup of coffee, Laura looked up in surprise. Natasha sighed, putting her bag down and crouching down next to the table so she could look at both Cooper and Lila. "Hey," she said quietly. "I know I said I'd be here a little while longer, but some grown-up stuff has come up. I have to go back to New York a little sooner than I thought."

 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw hurt flash across Laura's face before her expression went blank. In front of her, Lila's lip trembled. "But--but you promised!"

 

Natasha sighed. "I know, honey," she said. "But it isn't always up to me."

 

Cooper looked betrayed. "But what about my game?"

 

Shit. She'd forgotten. "I don't know, love," she said carefully. Cooper's game wasn't until Saturday. Maybe by then things would be okay again. "I'll try to come back for it, okay?"

 

Cooper opened his mouth, clearly wanting to say more, but Laura cut him off with a gentle clearing of her throat. "Kids, go finish breakfast in the living room, okay?"

 

The kids exchanged looks, but got to their feet, gathering up their bowls and trooping out of the room. Natasha straightened out of her crouch, pushing her hair back and moving into the kitchen. "Hey," she said quietly. "Thanks."

 

"Don't thank me," Laura said, her voice tense. She swallowed visibly. "You're leaving?"

 

Natasha frowned, not quite sure what to say. "I said I was, last night. You said it would be a good idea."

 

"Clint said that," Laura corrected. "And that was before you said--before we--"

 

She broke off, pressing her lips together. Natasha flushed and rested her hands on the counter, grounding herself on the cool laminate. “I know,” she said hesitantly. “But I just thought that…” She flexed her fingers against the counter. “There were a lot of emotions last night. I thought you guys might need some space.”

 

Laura stared at her. “Some space?” She echoed. “Some--Are you serious, Natasha? Are you actually kidding me?”

 

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. “Hey,” Clint said, coming around the corner with a slight frown. “Why are the kids eating in the living room? I thought--” He stopped, looking back and forth between them, and his eyes narrowed. “What’s going on?”

 

“Natasha’s leaving,” Laura said flatly.

 

“She’s what?” Clint’s expression went from surprised to hurt, and he looked at Natasha, confusion written all over his face. “Nat, what do you mean, you’re leaving?”

 

Natasha swallowed, trying not to get defensive. “I told you I was leaving,” she said, carefully keeping her voice calm. “Last night, before we...you know.”

 

“Yeah, I know, I was there.” Clint looked like he couldn’t decide whether to be angry or upset, and had settled somewhere between the two, his shoulders tight and tense. Natasha found herself positioned between them, Laura behind the counter and Clint at the entrance to the kitchen, and flexed her fingers again. “Kind of wondering if you were, or if I just made it up, since I didn’t really think you’d be bailing out in the morning. I’m remembering a lot of the _L_ word going around.”

 

Natasha bit her tongue. “I wasn’t…” She took a breath. “I wasn’t bailing.”

 

He crossed his arms. “Seems like you are,” he said.

 

Nate fussed slightly in Laura’s arms, and she bounced him gently in her arms, but her expression didn’t change. “She says she thought we needed _space_ ,” she said.

 

Clint’s jaw dropped, and he stared at her. “Are you kidding me?” Natasha spread her hands, helpless and caught, and he laughed humorlessly, coming into the kitchen and dropping his face into his hands. “Jesus.”

 

Natasha bristled, crossing her arms over her chest. “Sorry for thinking you guys might want some adjustment time after that.”

 

“Why is it always about what _we_ need?” Laura asked.

 

She didn’t sound demanding, just sad, her eyes soft and hurting. Natasha closed her eyes, hating, _hating_ , that she was the one to put that look on Laura’s face. When she opened them again, Laura was still looking at her, broken-hearted, and she took a trembling breath. “Because I need it to be,” she whispered, looking down at her hands. “I need to know that you two will be okay even if I screw this up again. I need you to be okay without me.”

 

Laura laughed, wet and bitter. “Well, it looks like we have to be,” she said. “Since no matter how many times we ask you to stay, you still manage to find a way to leave.”

 

It was true, and Natasha knew it was true, but she still felt a stab of guilt. “Laura--”

 

“No, Nat.” Laura took a breath. She was shaking, her arms tight around Nate, tears brimming in her eyes. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep asking, and waiting, and asking--I can’t. It’s not fair.”

 

Natasha started to protest, half out of desperation and half out of shame, but something in Laura’s eyes made her stop, and she bit her cheek until she tasted blood. She looked at Laura again, and then at Clint, seeing Laura’s heartbreak reflected all over his face, and closed her eyes, taking a breath. Laura was right. It wasn’t fair, and she couldn’t keep doing this to them.

 

At least she had the marks of their hands on her skin, and when those faded, the memory of last night. She breathed out, steeling herself, and opened her eyes. “Can I--Can I still come to Cooper’s game?”

 

The question came out in a whisper, and she hated that she couldn’t at least make her resolve _sound_ strong. But Laura’s face softened. “Yes,” she said gently. “Of course. You’re not--” She hesitated, looking at Clint.

 

He sighed. “We’re not banning you from the place, Nat,” he said tiredly. “We just...We love you too much to keep doing this halfway stuff. After last night, we both thought that you were--” He pressed his lips together, exhaled slowly. “We both thought that you were here for good. And now…” He shook his head. “We love you. You’re always going to be welcome here. But we can’t keep this back and forth stuff.”

 

Natasha swallowed. “Okay.” She took a breath. “Okay,” she said again. “I’m--I’m going to go say goodbye to the kids.”

 

Laura nodded. “Okay,” she whispered.

 

Natasha glanced at Clint, and he nodded. “Okay,” he said hoarsely.

 

She dug her fingernails into her palms, steadied herself, and left the room.

 

The next hour passed in a blur. Cooper and Lila cried when she brought her bag out to the car, clinging to her, and she wrapped them both in her arms for a long time, hating that she had to let them go. Laura handed Nate to her and she held him close, breathing in the baby-sweet smell of his hair and whispering to him in Russian, promising that she was doing this for the best, and pretended her own eyes weren’t stinging as she handed him back. “Thank you,” she whispered.

 

Laura smiled faintly, her eyes red. “Travel safe,” she said. “Call us when you land in New York.”

 

Natasha nodded. “I will,” she promised. She looked at Clint, trying to summon a smile. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

 

“Same to you, Romanoff.” He hesitated, and then smiled, holding out his arms. “C’mere, Red.”

 

She laughed softly, half in relief, half in sheer emotional exhaustion, and stepped into his arms, leaning her head into his shoulder. He hugged her tight, his hand slipping into her hair, and she clung to him fiercely for a moment, and then stepped back. “I’ll call,” she promised.

 

Clint brushed her hair back, the backs of his knuckles just touching her cheek. “Be safe.”

 

“I will.” She tilted her face against his hand, just for a moment, and then forced herself to move away. “Thank you,” she whispered.

 

She got in the car, started the engine, and managed not to cry until she got onto the interstate. “Dammit,” she whispered, blinking back tears. “Dammit, dammit, dammit--” She pulled over onto the shoulder of the road and turned off the car, tilting her head back against the seat and wiping furiously at her eyes. “God _dammit_.” She closed her eyes, digging her nails into her hands until she’d nearly drawn blood, trying to keep from outright sobbing.

 

She hated this, hated everything about this. She wanted to go home. She wanted to crawl into bed between Clint and Laura and never get out. She wanted to wrap Cooper and Lila and Nate in her arms and tell them how much she loved them, she wanted to watch all of Nate’s firsts and all the ones Cooper and Lila had left.

 

Natasha took a shaking breath, wiping her eyes again--uselessly, God, she kept _crying_ \--and sniffled. “Dammit,” she muttered. “God. I’m an idiot. I’m such an idiot.” She wiped the back of her hand across her nose, and she sighed. “Such an idiot.”

 

The sleeve of her shirt rode up slightly as she pushed her hair back, revealing the marks of Clint’s fingers around her wrist. She caught her breath, running her fingertips over the mark.

 

“I love you,” he’d whispered, nuzzling her skin. “I love you.”

 

And Laura had smiled, warm like liquid honey. “ _We_ love you,” she’d corrected, and Natasha had flushed to her toes, and arched her back, and had felt, in that moment, like the world was perfect.

 

Natasha ran her thumb over the mark on her skin again. If she concentrated, she thought, maybe she could even still smell Laura’s body lotion, remember the touch of Clint’s skin.

 

 _We love you_ , Laura had said, her eyes shining, soft and sweet, like a promise.

 

It had always, Natasha realized, awareness dawning, been a promise for them.

 

She slammed the car into gear, did an extremely illegal u-turn, and floored the rental back onto the highway.

 

The gas light on the car went on when she was still twenty miles out, and started flashing insistently at her before she got into town. It ran out of gas completely before she’d made it to the driveway and she swore, climbing out and running the rest of the way on foot.

 

The porch was empty when she reached it, and she pushed her hair, damp from the August sun, off her face, jogging up the porch steps. “Clint!” She called, rapping her knuckles onto the door. “Laura!”

 

Footsteps sounded inside, and Clint opened the door, Laura visible over his shoulder, both of them red-eyed and looking at her in vague confusion. “Hey,” Clint said, frowning. “You’re--Are you okay? Did you forget something?”

 

“Yes,” Natasha said, panting just slightly. She took a breath, swallowed hard, and looked up at him. “Ask me again.”

 

Clint’s frown deepened. “What?”

 

She looked up at him, and then past him to Laura, who watched her with eyes full of love and uncertainty. She turned back to Clint, her heart in her throat, and whispered, “Ask me again.”

 

For a moment, he just stared at her. Then he shook his head and turned, disappearing up the stairs, and Natasha watched him go, her heart sinking. She looked helplessly at Laura, but Laura just smiled, faintly, and touched her arm.

 

And then Clint came back down the stairs, jumping down the last few steps and crossing to them. He held out his hand, and, uncertain and confused, Natasha took it. Clint squeezed her fingers, and then, a faint smile curving his lips, held out a small, shining ring that she hadn’t seen in years, not since she’d taken it off her finger and placed it down between them.

 

Clint’s hand was warm in hers, callused and rough and so familiar. Laura touched her cheek gently, and Natasha turned to look at her, and found her smiling, tears in her eyes. “Stay?” Laura whispered.

 

Natasha reached out a trembling hand and took the ring from Clint. She slid it onto her finger, her hands shaking so badly it took three tries, and smiled through the tears running down her face. “Yes.”

 

Clint made a sound caught somewhere between a cheer and a laugh and a sob, scooping her into his arms and kissing her. Too overwhelmed to do anything else, she laughed and threaded her hands through his hair and kissed him back until Laura broke them up so that she could kiss her too, soft and sweet. Natasha clung to her, desperate, and Laura covered her face with kisses, laughing as she did it, and the rings on their fingers clicked together when Natasha brought her hands up to tangle with Laura’s. “I love you,” Natasha whispered, meaning it so deeply that the words didn’t even stick in her throat, and Laura smiled like the sun, kissing her so sweetly Natasha started crying all over again.

 

“Mommy!”

 

Lila’s shriek came from behind them, and Natasha broke away from Laura’s lips with a gasp. But Lila seemed to barely notice her, rushing into the foyer with Laura’s cell phone in her hand and Cooper on her heels. She paused briefly, gave a happy, half-distracted chirp of “Welcome back, Auntie Nat!”, and then tugged firmly on Laura’s cardigan. “Mommy, Uncle Mike is on the phone, and he said the animal people called him, and they have a doggie there who’s nice and soft but he only has one eye and an inside-outy ear and they don’t think anyone will adopt him but _we_ could adopt him, and he could run around the farm and chase the chickens! Can we get a dog, Mommy, _please_?”

 

Laura stared at her, clearly overwhelmed, and looked at Clint. “Clint,” she said, “Will you talk to your daughter, please?”

 

“Dunno,” Clint said, his face flushed. He draped an arm around Natasha’s shoulders, and she laughed despite herself, leaning his head against him. “Seems like a big decision. Nat, what do you think?”

 

The weight of his arm was warm and heavy, and she felt safe and loved and comfortable. “One eye and an inside-outy ear, huh?” She raised her eyebrows at Laura, and smiled. “Sounds like a lucky dog. I think you should take him.”

 

Lila shrieked with glee, and Cooper punched the air in victory. Laura gave a half-hearted groan, dropping her head against Natasha’s shoulder, Clint laughed and kissed her cheek, and Natasha watched the summer sun glint off her wedding ring and smiled: finally, finally, home.

 

_But I’m not afraid  
_ _I know who I married  
_ _So long as you come home at the end of the day  
_ _That would be enough_

\- Lin-Manuel Miranda

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: reference to canon-typical violence, reference to trauma and PTSD, reference to canon-typical brainwashing, pregnancy and childbirth (not graphic), reference to reproductive violence and forced sterility, semi-explicit sex between three consenting adults
> 
> Wow, kids. It's been a wild ride.
> 
> When I started writing this fic almost a year ago, I had no idea it would turn into something this long, this intricate, and this much fun. I cannot believe the response this fic has gotten, and I am so, so grateful to each and every one of you who has left kudos, commented, sent me messages on Tumblr, or just taken the time to read this. I've been so overwhelmed by the outpouring of positivity you've left over the course of the fic, and I couldn't have asked for more amazing readers. <3
> 
> So many, many thanks--always and all ways, to [deb](http://debz0rz.tumblr.com) for reading and editing my fic for more than a decade (I hope stuff has gotten better in quality!), to [isjustprogress](http://isjustprogress.tumblr.com) for all the writing dates, OT3 meltdowns, pep talks, and emotional bonding, and to [nathanielbarton](http://nathanielbarton.tumblr.com) for the incredible gifsets.
> 
> And thank you, thank you, thank you, to all of you for going on this amazing journey with me. :) It's been fun, and exhausting, and overwhelming, and I would do it all again.
> 
> And yeah, we ended with a _Hamilton_ quote, because Lin-Manuel got me through writing this baby, and I figure I owe it to him. Judge away, y'all; I am, as the kids say, trash for the thing.
> 
> Questions? Comments? Just want to yell at me? Come message me [on tumblr](http://geniusorinsanity.tumblr.com/).
> 
> And hey:
> 
> Thanks. :)


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